Spoken
by GreenEyesGreySkies
Summary: Actions speak louder than words, they all say, but nobody ever mentions how difficult it is to discover what those actions truly mean. In the midst of troubled times, cocky Slytherin Draco Malfoy meets a mute Harry Potter and finds himself instantly captivated. Is it possible to fall for someone who has never spoken to you? Hogwarts 6th year AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Inspiration struck me in the middle of the night, and I thought, 'hey, maybe it's time I start a new chapter fic.' So here I am... Great story. Anyways, I've never written anything like this, so bear with me. This is sixth year 'Harry never went to Hogwarts' AU. So... ****_very_**** AU. And slash! There, all the warnings so far. **

**Disclaimer: I ****_wish_**** these characters were mine… but unfortunately, they are not. Cry with me.**

Chapter 1

People have often said that Draco Malfoy was a boy larger than life.

Perhaps that was true.

At least Draco knew what he was. He was loud and unashamed at times—a sixth year Slytherin prefect and Quidditch extraordinaire and he loved to show it off. He was accomplished and wealthy; good at everything he tried, clever and able to succeed in any situation. He could smooth talk his way into _anything_ with anybody... and if he were to be honest, he could probably match his father in snark. Positively angelic with a flash of his snowy smile, incorrigibly demonic when he had not gotten what he wanted, Draco knew that some people thought that he was a bully, and a supercilious one at that. But at least they thought of him, he liked to say. Draco was never one to be ignored.

"Goyle!" he bellowed, his commanding voice stretching down the Hogwarts corridor in a harsh echo. He was standing at the very end of the hall, glaring down it with his hands on his hips. Goyle looked up at him, terrified. Why was it so hard to get good help these days? Draco pursed his lips. "Get over here now!"

It was a Monday morning, and that was just the beginning of it. Draco had a big exam in his first class of the day and he'd been up all night studying. He'd run out of his favourite hair gel and his next order wasn't coming until nightfall. His mother had owled him three times this morning just to "check up" on him (aka gossip about the House Elves at the Manor) because obviously, the woman had nothing better to do with her time now that Lucius had 'gone back to work'. Draco rubbed his forehead tiredly. He was already in a foul mood and the sun wasn't even up yet. Damn Mondays.

Goyle scuttled towards him now, ashamed that he'd been caught on his own. "Sorry. Is there something I can do for you, Draco?" he asked meekly.

Although the other boy was much larger, Draco towered over him like a giant—metaphorically speaking. It should have been strange how that worked, but Draco was just naturally commandeering. It added to his appeal, he liked to believe. "Where is Zabini?" he grilled. "He's got my painting."

"Well, I think that he's headed to breakfast, but I can't be—"

"Let's go," Draco interjected, striding off towards the Great Hall. Goyle trailed behind him automatically.

It wasn't just that Draco was formidable—although yes, he had an aura of authority and distinction about him—but he was also scarily intelligent about how he used it. He knew everything, _had _everything he needed to be—and even though people were often afraid of him, no one dared to openly dislike him. He was king of the castle and he wasn't reluctant to remind anyone of his status. By the time that he'd arrived in the Great Hall and settled down into his seat at the Slytherin table, Blaise Zabini was indeed already there. The boy waved hello.

"Draco," Blaise greeted.

"Blaise," Draco nodded. "Where's my painting?"

Blaise gestured at his satchel sitting next to him. "Right here. But I was wondering if I could keep it for a few more hours? I haven't got around to duplicating it yet and I wanted to have a copy for my collection."

"Of course," Draco said, waving it off as if he hadn't just stormed through half the castle to find it. "Just put it back at today's meeting, we're sketching today. By the way, make sure that it gets excellent display... My mum says I've got a real chance at getting my work into several galleries. So, you could have potentially famous work in your collection at that rate."

Blaise raised his brows. "You don't say?"

"It's true. She's checked."

"Well, can't say I'm surprised," Blaise remarked. "Your stuff is fantastic."

Draco smirked. He was good at everything, but more than anything, he was an artist. He had the nimble fingers for it, the graceful movements, the able mind. Unfortunately, there hadn't been an art class or a club at Hogwarts, but he had managed to acquire permission to start a club in which he'd be in charge of, of course, and instructor for. He had done it to allow the students to escape their limited views of the world, he once claimed, but he had stopped saying that lately. If he were to be honest, he just liked to show off. After reminding Blaise of his own artistic ability one more time, Draco settled back to his breakfast, gathering one spoonful of potatoes, two sausage links, a piece of toast with strawberry jam on the side, and a glass of orange juice, as was his daily routine. Just as he was about to take a bite into his toast, Nott budged at his side.

Draco glared at him. "What was that for?" he snapped.

"Look there," Nott said, not even bothering to apologise for the sharp jab. He nodded towards the Gryffindor table on the other side of the room. "The Gryffindors are going mental."

"Blimey, they're even nuttier than usual," Blaise agreed, glancing over as well.

Despite his annoyance, Draco looked. Both Blaise and Nott were right; the occupants of the table were buzzing and crowded together, and they were all speaking at the same frenzied, annoying pace. Really, it was the Gryffindors—they were always excited about something or another. Why should it concern him? Draco shook his head. "Someone must've put something in their pumpkin juice," he remarked. "I'd like to shake the hand of whomever pulled that off." He really couldn't care less what the Gryffindors were hyped up about. Obviously, he had all of his own Monday problems to deal with.

"Did someone mention Gryffindors?"

Pansy Parkinson scooted in towards him to join the conversation and Draco wrinkled his nose at her. She smirked. "I heard they're ruffled because they've got a new student today," she said, waving around buttered toast in her hand. Draco watched the crumbs fall onto the table with distaste.

"Now?" Nott raised his eyebrows. "But we've been in school for ages. Isn't it a little late?"

"Blah, blah," Draco commented, to show his boredom.

Pansy rolled her smoky lined eyes. "We've only been back a month, Theodore. Anyways, Dumbledore seems to think it's a good idea." She leaned in some more as if she were telling a juicy secret. "I hear it's Harry Potter," she whispered.

Now Draco raised his eyebrows.

"Harry Potter?" Blaise asked incredulously. "You mean the Boy Who Lived?"

"The one and only," Pansy answered, pleased with the reaction she was getting from the boys. "I've calculated that he'd be in _our_ year!"

"I thought he didn't exist," Draco argued sourly. "Urban legend."

"Oh please," Pansy scoffed. "We all know that he's got to be real. Especially now that You-Know-Who is rumoured to be...well, you know…"

The rest of them fell silent, as the sentence did not need to be continued. Well, right. Draco took a bite of his toast and chewed it thoughtfully. Harry Potter. Of course he'd heard the story of Harry Potter, the boy who had defeated the Dark Lord as a baby with only a mere scar as punishment. He was famous throughout the wizarding world, sought after as a hero and a legend. Curiously, nobody had seen him ever since the supposed incident; some believed that he had been taken away by his protectors, others believed that the boy had actually died that night along with his parents and somebody had spread a false tale. But who could really say? You-Know-Who had disappeared without an explanation except for that boy, it was only logical. Draco frowned. Could it be true? Was it possible that Harry Potter would return?

"Why Gryffindor, though?" he inquired suddenly, drawing attention back to the conversation.

Pansy shrugged. "Perhaps they've already Sorted him in private," she suggested. "Nobody knows. We don't even know if it's true yet. I hope it is. Harry bloody Potter, honestly!"

Draco took another bite of his toast and smirked. "Yeah, well. I've got a way we can find out," he announced.

**~x~**

**~x~**

People have often said that Harry Potter was a boy who didn't deserve a life.

Perhaps that was true.

Harry sat by himself in the small classroom he'd discovered, wringing his hands in his lap. He hadn't had the courage to go to breakfast or his first few classes, although, in his defence, he_ had_ braved leaving his private room for the first time since arriving here the night before... Here, at Hogwarts. Harry looked around, scanning the rows of empty desks. He'd never imagined that he'd make it here at this point in his life; he had only just turned sixteen years old two months ago. It was common knowledge that students were supposed to be admitted when they turned eleven... Harry had thought that he'd well missed the opportunity. He shook his head. It was as if his life had been on pause for the last five years, and when it had begun to play again he had found himself an entirely different place. His whole life seemed to be that way, actually.

His childhood had been a blur; he had spent most of his days locked up in rooms of old creaky houses that never seemed to stick. He had never once been to the market, or a shop, or a park, and he had never had any friends or family visit him when he had a birthday. In fact, Harry knew only one person—and that was Remus Lupin, his guardian and teacher. It tended to get lonely sometimes. Remus was Harry's friend, of course, but he was also decades older and a part-time werewolf at the same time, so Harry couldn't really say that they had a lot in common. The only things that Harry knew about people his own age were what he had learned through old Muggle films Remus sometimes brought back from his trips to the city, and somehow, he knew that it wasn't enough.

Harry wasn't clueless; he knew that he wasn't a normal boy—he had known it when he'd first learned that a Dark Wizard had killed his parents and that he was a wizard himself, had known it while he was being carted around from one secret location to another, never able to communicate with anyone but Remus... but most important of all, he had known it when he had turned six years old and he had still been unable to say his own mother's name...

The truth was, Harry Potter couldn't speak then, and he hadn't since. Nothing. Ever.

Remus had explained to Harry that the disability was most likely connected with the spell that had rebounded off of him when Voldemort had tried to kill him on that fateful night. Perhaps the mental trauma had been too much for Harry, Remus had guessed, perhaps Harry had somehow blocked off the physical ability to talk. There was a psychological term for it, but Harry didn't care to remember it now. The point was, the spell had left not only a physical scar upon him, but an internal one as well. Harry reached up and touched the lightening-shaped scar that was slightly covered by the fringe upon his forehead. Then he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Scars.

That's how he had known for sure that he wasn't normal. Harry wasn't a normal wizard because he couldn't do magic, but he also wasn't a normal teen because he had the blood of a wizard. What was he then? Harry didn't know, he had never bothered to know. He used to cry, silent tears of confusion and anger towards an unknown source, hating the fact that he was hopelessly restricted inside his own mind with no one else to talk to, hating everything. Why was he like this? Why couldn't he just be like everybody else? Was it a punishment for something he had done? But Harry had long outgrown the crying now... It didn't do him any good.

After a few more minutes of sitting, Harry stood up cautiously, brushing off his new school robes and placing his satchel on the floor beside him. For a moment he just stood there, taking it all in, before he stepped forward and let his hand run gently across the solid edge of a nearby desk. Coming here to Hogwarts hadn't been his idea at all. Remus had only told him that the move had been necessary for his safety before running off again without another word of explanation. All Harry really knew was that Remus was leaving him to do some "Order work" and that Harry was going to be all alone for some time. The thought made him shiver and he rubbed his arms and bit his lip with worry. It was a scary notion, being alone. Harry had seen the students from afar, and he had met with the Headmaster once upon arrival for Sorting, but obviously his social skills weren't the best in the world. He had only had Remus, after all. Was he going to fit in?

Before he could gather his thoughts properly, Harry heard the door click from the outside. Worried, he scurried to the corner of the room where his satchel lay, huddling there with wide, uncertain eyes. The heavy door swung open and a tall, young blond-haired boy strode in.

"Now, where did I put my—Merlin's beard!" The boy crashed back into a desk upon looking up and seeing Harry in the corner. Harry's eyes only widened further, as he had not meant to scare the blond... even if he could, he didn't know what he would say. Sorry? Hello, maybe? The blond looked pretty angry now. Harry cringed involuntarily.

"Who are you? What are you doing in here? Are you lost?" the tall boy asked, gathering himself from his clumsy fall and placing his hands on his hips in accusation. Strands of blond hair wisped over his eyes, which flashed dangerously. The look caused Harry's stomach to churn and he gulped and backed up further. Who was this bloke? Why was he asking so many questions?

By the lack of response, the boy's eyes narrowed as if he'd just heard a confession. "Are you the new Ravenclaw Beater? You fucking cheat! How did you find this room?" he bellowed. Harry whimpered silently at the volume. "I'm going to beat you and your teammates into a pulp when I find out who instigated this. Where are your robes? Let me see them immediately!"

Harry gaped noiselessly, not quite sure how to respond to his raging classmate. What he raving on about? Who was a Ravenclaw? What was a Beater? He looked down at himself in confusion; he thought he was already wearing his Gryffindor robes, but apparently he hadn't put them on yet.

"Your outer robes, you nitwit!" the boy screamed. "For fuck's sake, can't you speak? Forget about the beating, I'm going to report you. If you thought you'd pull one over on the Slytherins, you thought wrong."

Harry didn't know what to do. For some strange reason, he was frozen in place... he couldn't even deny the false accusations being thrown at him. This was such a horrible new feeling! He stared at the blond boy in confusion, a feeling of terror and helplessness washing over him. He had never been spoken to like that in his life; Remus had always been gentle and understanding. But this boy was condescending, absolutely frightening—was this how _every_ real teenager acted? For Merlin's sake. Teenagers were scarier in real life than they had been on film.

The blond rolled his eyes, obviously exasperated with the ordeal. "Bloody hell, you're a fucking freak," he spat. With a last sneer, he whirled around and picked up a sack lying by the door, stomping away without waiting for a potential response. Harry could hear him muttering obscenities under his breath.

After he left, Harry sat back down and hung his head sadly. Guess he wasn't going to fit in after all.

**~x~**

**~x~**

"Hey Draco!"

Draco slowed down to let Blaise catch up to him in the hallway. The other boy was by his side in a few seconds. "Where were you at lunch, mate?" Blaise asked breathlessly. "I saved you a blueberry muffin, but you never showed up." He reached into his bag and pulled out the napkin-covered muffin, and Draco took it gratefully.

"Thanks. I was going to get a few Quidditch supplies from the stash for practise later," Draco explained, and Blaise nodded along knowingly; the abandoned classroom on the third floor was an unspoken Slytherin secret. They had always stored their top-of-the-line Quidditch supplies (and alcohol) in there, and those supplies had been their secret weapons for difficult matches. In fact, they had a match coming up against Ravenclaw, the second best House team, in one week, and Draco had also gone to make sure everything was in place.

"Doesn't usually take that long though," Blaise commented as an afterthought.

"I know." Draco rolled his eyes, irritated by the memory. "I caught some bloke snooping around in there, obviously not a Slytherin. He wasn't very bright. Didn't say a word, just sat there staring at me with this dumb expression. Bastard. Snooping around our things and not even having the good grace to own up to it."

Blaise's eyes widened. "Nobody outside of Slytherin knows about the stash!" he exclaimed.

Draco pursed his lips. "Exactly. We've got to find out who the traitor is. I reckon it's a Ravenclaw." Blaise nodded solemnly in agreement, and Draco sighed. Sometimes it was tiring being the best. "For now, we've got a club meeting to attend," he remarked. "Ready?"

"Yeah." Blaise tapped his bag. "I've got your painting ready to put back, and all of my good stencils. What are we sketching today?"

"You'll see. Let's hurry, we can't be late."

They walked together, bantering a bit, until they reached the classroom in which Draco's art club was held. As they walked in, Draco noticed that most people were already inside setting up their easels and chatting along with their friends in the process. The classroom was filled, as always, with students of many Houses and Years. Draco's prestige was not a secret, of course, and most people opted to swallow their fear of him in favour of learning a thing or two about art. It was only reasonable. Draco walked to the centre of the room with purpose.

"Can I have your attention please?" he announced, taking a moment to let the volume of the room simmer down from the sound of his voice. "Today, we will be sketching a still life."

Goyle raised his hand to ask a question, but Draco didn't acknowledge him. "A still life is an object that will not move," he explained, with some impatience. Goyle's hand went down. "Any other questions? Good." Draco took out his wand, conjuring a stool and a small basket of assorted fruits. "Here is your muse. You may begin."

He rubbed his hands together and began to walk around the classroom, absently surveying students and pointing out the flaws in their artwork. Honestly, he didn't know why the professors complained so much. Teaching was easy, he thought. All he had to do was tell the students how wrong they were. After cringing over Goyle's artistic attempt and patting him on the shoulder, Draco spotted his main target of the day: Hermione Granger. She was sitting at her easel, frowning at it for a few moments, before leaning over to Ron Weasley's and peering at it to compare. The redheaded boy swatted her away and muttered something about 'copycats'.

Draco rolled his eyes. Gryffindors.

He made his way over there under the impression of peering at the other students' work and paused at Neville Longbottom, who was right next to Granger. "For Merlin's sake, Longbottom," Draco sneered. "What _are _you sketching?"

The boy looked up at him with frightened eyes. "Um, it's the fruit basket…"

"It looks like a lumpy tree," Draco stated flatly.

Longbottom began to pout and Granger reached over to pat his shoulder consolingly. "It's okay, Neville," she said gently. "_I_ think it looks like fruit."

"Well, well, Granger," Draco drawled, coming up behind her. "And what do we have here?"

"It's the fruit basket, like you asked," she answered, obvious displeasure etched on her face.

Draco personally thought it looked even lumpier than Longbottom's had, but he didn't say anything, as he wanted to be on her good side today. She was his target of the day, but not for ridicule. Seeing as Granger was a Gryffindor, and a nosy one at that, he figured that she would know a thing or two about the new student. If he were to be completely honest, Draco hadn't stopped thinking about the possibility of Harry Potter since that morning. In fact, the notion was starting to excite him a bit. Harry Potter, of all people! What an asset he would be to Draco!

"It looks lovely," he encouraged, only earning a suspicious frown from the girl. "Say, I've heard you Gryffindors have a new student among you. That's… interesting. Care to share thoughts?"

Granger's frown was growing. "Are you trying to make small talk with me?" she asked, distrust in her voice.

Draco wrinkled his nose. Ugh, Granger. Why was she so analytical about these things? Perhaps he should have gone for Weasley instead. "Call it as you wish," he muttered. "Can you answer the question?"

She gave him a strange look, but she seemed to buy it for now. "Well, yes, we do," she admitted. "How did you hear it?"

"Oh, well, I noticed that the Gryffindor table was rowdier than usual, if that's even possible, and I did some snooping around. Pretty standard, really. Do you have any idea who it is?"

Granger narrowed her eyes at that question, which of course, only fueled Draco's curiousity. "Why do you even want to know, Malfoy?" she inquired.

"Because I _live_ to be absolutely informed on the scandals of Gryffindor—honestly, what do you think? I just want to know if I've got a new classmate, is that a crime?" Draco snapped. After a belated moment, he realised that he had overstepped his boundaries of sarcasm, because Granger pursed her lips and turned back to her drawing without another word.

"Buzz off, Malfoy," Weasley muttered, his eyes still trained on his canvas. "Can't you see that we're working?"

Draco glared at the redhead. "What are you even doing here, Weasel? Did Granger put the leash on you again, or did you come out of your own free will this time?" he leered.

Weasley turned and glowered at Draco now, his bright blue eyes flickering with anger and the infamous Weasley temper flaring up once more. Typical. "She doesn't have me on a leash, damn it," he snarled. "I'm my own man! A man who likes to draw!"

Draco snorted. "Sure thing, Weaselbee," he remarked. Then he looked back to Granger. "Any chance that the new student is Harry Potter?" He was now opting for straightforward, since obviously, the casual nice guy act wasn't working.

Granger immediately stared at him, shocked. "How did you know that?" she murmured, her voice dropping into a whisper.

Draco shrugged. "Like I said, I went snooping around."

"Well, don't. It's an extremely fragile situation."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Obviously," he said. "It's _Harry Potter_."

"Shh!" she whispered fiercely, before glancing around. "Only the Gryffindor House knows for now. Dumbledore introduced us to him about an hour ago to make sure we're acquainted properly. Apparently, he was supposed to be in classes today but he never showed." She looked sympathetic. "Dumbledore found him wandering around the halls after lunch. The poor bloke, he's got this—" she paused and shook her head. "I've said too much. I don't even know why I'm telling you anything."

"Tell me more!" Draco demanded, but the girl shook her head again in silent determination. "Come on, Granger. I just want to know about him... and meet him, perhaps? Could you introduce me?"

Granger gave him a sceptical look. "Why would you want to meet him?"

"Because he's Har—"

"Shh!"

"Well, because you know. He's—" he dropped his voice, "famous."

Granger snorted and turned away. "Right."

Draco glared at the side of her frizzy head. He crossed his arms and pouted a little for show, but Granger didn't even look up. Stubborn bint. He sighed. Well, at least he got_ some_ information out of her. Harry Potter was at the school! He existed, and he was going to be Draco's classmate! Draco imagined befriending the lad, taking him under his wing: he'd be Draco's own little Gryffindor spy, his informant of all that was bold and brash. It'd be positively marvelous! Now, if only Draco could get Granger to introduce him…

"Hey, I've got an idea," he burst out suddenly, causing Granger to regard him.

"What?"

"How about I give you a few private art lessons in exchange for a meeting with him?"

Granger balked. "No!"

"Oh, come on!"

"Why would I take private lessons from you? You call me the M-word all the time!" she argued.

Draco cocked an eyebrow. "Why would you come to my club meetings?" he countered. "I call you a Mudblood all the time."

She wrinkled her nose at his comparison. "I want to draw," she grumbled.

Draco pursed his lips and leaned closer, inspecting her canvas. Perhaps he had to take a different approach yet again. "This is horrid," he remarked. "What are you even sketching? It appears to be a lumpy rock of some sort." It seemed to work. Granger gasped, scandalised, and Draco gestured over towards her companion's easel to add fuel to the fire. "Look, even Weasley's fruit basket is better than yours. That is just sad."

Weasley frowned, then smiled, and then frowned again, as if not sure whether to feel insulted or flattered. Draco grinned.

"Why do all of your insults have the word 'lumpy' in it?" Granger muttered.

"It's the ugliest adjective I can think of," Draco said matter-of-factly. "But you know, I can fix that problem for you with a few private lessons. You've just got to do this one tiny little thing for me in return."

Granger was starting to look rather pale and sick from being referred to as worse than her incompetent redhead. It was obvious that she couldn't handle not being the best at something. Draco wanted to scoff. Honestly, the girl had to get over herself. Granger glared at Draco for a moment, but then sighed. "Fine. Whatever," she murmured.

Draco cheered inwardly. "So I can meet him?" he asked.

"Maybe. See, I don't think he trusts me and it might be difficult—"

"Right. I'll see you after dinner then. Third floor corridor, don't be late."

Draco whirled around on his heels, leaving before she could protest any more. He was going to get the scoop on this Harry Potter, and he was going to be the first to do it. Because really, he wasn't Draco Malfoy for nothing.

**~x~**

**~x~**

Harry sat on a couch in the Gryffindor common room, fidgeting with his robes a little as two of his Housemates sat across from him: one a tall, freckly redheaded boy, and the other a small, bushy-haired brunette. It was... uncomfortable. The girl was gazing at him intently; a gentle smile on her face, and the boy was giving him a sort of awkward grin. Upon entering the portrait, both had just sat down in front of him as if it were a normal occurrence. Was it? Harry didn't know how to react. He just stared back at them.

"Hullo Harry," the girl chirped finally. "My name is Hermione Granger, and this is Ron Weasley. Glad to make your acquaintance."

"Hi," Ron added, still grinning.

Harry smiled a little in acknowledgement of their names and introductions and Hermione's eyes lit up. She seemed a bit overeager, but at least she wasn't acting like the angry blond from before. "How's Hogwarts for you so far?" Hermione asked. "I do hope you'll like it here. It's been a second home to me and Ron for years and we can show you around, if you want. I don't think that Ron is doing anything later. He can give you a tour of the boys' dorm, perhaps."

Ron made a face at her. "Ron can speak for himself, you know," he said dryly.

Hermione frowned. "Please, Ron. Don't be difficult in front of Harry. It's not polite."

Ron snorted and looked at Harry, his eyebrows raised. "Right, _I'm_ the difficult one. Says the girl who coordinates the order of her textbooks by alphabetical consonants of the editors' last names."

"It makes them easier to find!" Hermione argued hotly, her voice rising. She turned to Harry as well. "Obviously, Harry, you can see who the mature one here is."

Ron rolled his eyes. "_Obviously_, mate."

"Ronald Weasley, are you mocking me?"

Harry watched the two of them bicker for a few more moments, not knowing exactly what he was supposed to do. Was it a normal thing for teenagers to fight like this? He had never seen anybody argue like Ron and Hermione were at the moment, and had Hermione not insinuated that the two of them were close friends, Harry would have assumed that they couldn't stand each other. How odd! After another round of shouting, Harry tilted his head and tapped on his lips to remind his new Housemates that he was still there and that he wanted to say something. At this, Ron and Hermione immediately stopped arguing and gave him apologetic looks. Hermione 'ooh'ed' and blushed prettily.

"I'm sorry, we get a little carried away sometimes," she admitted.

Harry gave them concerned looks, but Ron shrugged. "Nothing to worry about, mate," he assured. "Completely normal."

Harry grinned and tapped his lips again, gesturing around for something to write on. Hermione made a noise of realisation. "Would you like a scroll?" she asked. Harry nodded.

Without another word, Hermione took out her wand and quickly conjured up a piece of parchment and a quill. Harry watched her, utterly impressed at the simplicity of her work. He'd never seen a person their age use magic before, and he noticed that she did it without having to say a spell. He didn't even know that was possible. But if so... Hermione handed him the parchment and quill and Harry picked them both up eagerly, scribbling his words down with ease. He was used to having to write a lot; he often had to communicate with Remus about the littlest things, and he had gotten very quick at it.

_Can you teach me how to do that?_

Hermione scanned the paper and looked up in confusion. "To do what? Conjure supplies?"

Harry nodded excitedly, and her mouth went into a round little 'o' for a moment. She began squealing. "Of course I will, Harry!" she exclaimed, causing both Harry and Ron to wince and cover their ears. "I've got my notes from previous years, at least two texts specifically on conjuring every day items, and then a few with a broader spectrum…I could teach you wandless House spells too, if you'd like! It's a whole other concept, but I've got those notes colour coordinated by function and it shouldn't take too long. Oh, Harry, I'm so glad you've asked! We're going to be such great friends!"

"Oh, bloody hell," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "You're never going to get rid of her now, mate."

Harry grinned at him, but of course he didn't mind. After witnessing the boy in the classroom earlier, he hadn't had high hopes of making any friends at school—even when the Headmaster had introduced him to the rest of House, he hadn't expected much. But after learning of his condition and who he was, most of his Housemates only had smiles and words of greeting for him and Harry's hope were starting to climb again. Ron and Hermione seemed like nice, level-headed people. Well, despite the yelling and the spontaneous arguing, of course. But he could get used to that.

Harry had to admit; the best part about the whole thing was that nobody in Gryffindor was trying to treat him as if he were special or different. Students were mulling around the area right now, not staring at him, not coddling him, not asking if he needed anything. It wasn't as if Harry wasn't grateful for Remus's constant worry at home, but he liked the freedom. He glanced back at the two smiling faces in front of him. And he was starting to think that maybe it wasn't impossible for him to fit in here—at least, if these people were willing to stick with him for a bit, which they seemed to be. Of course, Harry hadn't met the rest of the school population yet, and he reckoned that it would be much more difficult, but it was nice to know that he had people on the inside.

"Look, Harry," Hermione began again, her grin losing a bit of its enthusiasm at the change of subject. "I wanted to ask you a favour. You don't have to do it, but I just wanted to ask."

Harry frowned, but nodded to urge her on.

She shrugged. "I have this friend… well, actually not—he's a _classmate, _if you will—who wants to, uh, meet you. He's not in Gryffindor, so I don't particularly know how he knew that you were here, but… he seems to be genuinely curious. I told him that I would try."

Ron rolled his eyes. "I don't see why though," he remarked offhandedly.

Harry raised his eyebrows. He wasn't completely ignorant of the fact that there'd be rumours of his arrival, but he hadn't known that news would spread this fast. He didn't see the harm in it, however, seeing as he would have to attend classes with the rest of the student population the next day. Might as well get a head start on the introductions. Harry shrugged and nodded at her for confirmation. Hermione beamed.

"Thank you, Harry," she said.

Ron shook his head and stood up. "Well, it's almost dinner time," he announced, clearly excited for the occasion. "Want to grab a bite?"

Harry shook his head and smiled in apology. It wasn't as if he didn't want to eat with his new friends, it was just that he was still unaccustomed to large crowds of people. He'd almost had a panic attack upon seeing the Gryffindor House in front of him; he couldn't imagine how he might react to the entire school. He knew that it would take a couple of days to adjust to his new environment, but if it all went well, it shouldn't come as a problem.

"We'll be back right after dinner, all right?" Hermione assured, getting up as well. "Then we'll go and meet our classmate together."

Harry nodded, and both Hermione and Ron waved at him and walked out towards the portrait hole. A few other students waved at him on their way out as well and he returned the gesture genuinely. But after they were all gone, he sat back into the couch and stared at the diminishing ashes in the fireplace. It was oddly exhausting being noticed after so many years of loneliness.

**~x~**

**~x~**

"Now you have to behave yourself, Malfoy."

"I will, I will," Draco said impatiently, brushing off Granger's warning and continuing to flounce up the stairs towards the third floor. Weasley had gone to fetch the Potter boy from the confines of the Gryffindor Tower; apparently the Boy Who Lived didn't like to eat dinner with the rest of them. That was odd, but Draco could look past it. Potter obviously liked his privacy, there was nothing wrong with that.

"I'm serious," Granger went on. "He's special, okay? You can't go around intimidating him like you do everybody else."

"You insult me, Granger," Draco replied. "I'm perfectly civil around new people, I'll have you know."

"Right." Granger snorted unpleasantly. "Like you are every year with the First Years."

Draco smirked. "Those are Firsties, that's different."

"Whatever. Just tone it down."

Draco rolled his eyes, but he didn't fight any longer. He was finally going to meet the Great Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived. He was going to make grand plans with Potter; they were going to be the dream team of Hogwarts, threatening everything and everyone in their paths with their power… Of course, his father would never approve, but his father didn't have to know. Draco reveled in the act of rebellion and he was sure that Potter would too.

As they reached the third floor, Draco saw two figures huddled over by a nearby alcove, half hidden by the shadow. The lanky one, presumably Weasley, was talking animatedly to a smaller, scrawnier fellow, who only appeared to be nodding back. Draco frowned a little but didn't comment out loud. Of course, he hadn't expected Harry Potter to be huge and grand, but the lad standing next to Weasley was at least a head shorter than Draco and thinner than a twig. It wasn't really that intimidating. Draco truly hoped that Potter's personality would speak volumes more than his physical appearance did.

"Ron! Harry!" Granger called out, causing the two boys to turn around and step towards them.

Draco immediately rushed closer as Weasley and Potter came out of the shadows. But as they came face to face, however, Draco noticed something strangely familiar about Harry Potter. He quickly took in the messy black hair and owl-rimmed glasses and gasped, remembering. Wait a minute. He'd seen that face before!

"This can't be Harry Potter!" he shouted.

All three of his companions looked at him in shock. The boy who claimed to be Harry Potter stared at him with those scared, wide green eyes and hovered around Weasley for supposed protection. "What the fuck are you on, Malfoy?" Weasley demanded, throwing an arm around the imposter. "How would _you_ know if he isn't Harry? You've never met him before!"

"Because!" Draco pointed at the boy accusingly. "This is the barmy Ravenclaw who broke into my personals this morning. I caught him there redhanded!"

"What?" Granger exclaimed. "He's not a Ravenclaw, you dolt! Look at his robes!"

Draco looked at Potter's robes, and indeed, the Gryffindor emblem was on them. Oh. "He wasn't wearing his outer robes this morning," he argued weakly. "How was I supposed to know?"

"Oh, shut up Malfoy!" Granger screeched. "I knew this was a bad idea. Look what you've done to him!"

Draco glanced at the boy, who appeared as though he was going to shit himself, or perhaps already had. Oh gods. Potter's face was beginning to redden and his eyes were large and teary with horror. Draco wanted to slap him out of it. Oh, he's got to be kidding! This was the great Harry Potter? "Well, it's not entirely my fault," Draco muttered. "He could have just told me that he wasn't snooping around for the enemy instead of standing there like a fucking mute."

Weasley seemed to squeeze Potter closer. "For Merlin's _sake,_ Malfoy, you're such a bastard," he spat.

Draco frowned. "Excuse me?"

Granger put her arm around Potter as well. "Harry _is_ mute. Gods, you're so dense! If you had stopped and noticed anything but yourself for once, you would have clearly seen that he couldn't have said anything even if he wanted to."

Draco's mouth fell open. What the hell? Harry Potter was a mute? This was impossible. How had he not known that? Draco stared at Potter, so different in real life than he had been in Draco's imagination, so much weaker, so small. This shivering, anxious bloke had defeated the darkest wizard of all time as a baby? Really? Draco suddenly remembered calling Potter a 'freak' and walking out without a second glance. He hadn't even thought of the possibility that there was actually something wrong with the boy, or that it could have been the ever-famous Harry Potter that he was shouting at. Draco stared at Potter's big, green eyes, open-mouthed, and an unexpected rush of guilt passed through him as Granger and Weasley began to pull Potter away.

"Potter, wait," Draco called after them. He didn't know what he was going to say.

"Oh and by the way, Harry," Granger said, just loud enough so that Draco could hear her too. "That is Draco Malfoy. He's _not _your friend."

**Author's Note: So there's the first chapter! Please tell me what you think, any suggestions of what you want to see, questions, or anything like that. I know the POVs switch pretty rapidly, but it's difficult to write too much in Harry's POV seeing as he doesn't speak at all. Also, I've learned about this type of thing in school, and Harry's condition would technically be classified as a type of Somatoform disorder, which is when a person experiences something so traumatizing that they lose the ability to see (or walk, or smell, or anything of that sort), even though there is nothing physically wrong with them. A mental disorder, so to speak.**

**Another thing: I'm not quite so sure about the title. After reading and rereading this over and over, I haven't found anything that's stuck yet. If any of you have suggestions, that would be great (even though, knowing me, I might just stick with the original out of laziness). Hope you enjoyed and will stick around x**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Thank you guys for your lovely comments! I had a few people ask if I was going to use sign language, and I thought I'd address that here. At first, I was not going to use it because I don't know much about it. But then I realized that I don't need to know much anyways, so yes, I will be, but later in the story when it is appropriate. Anyways, thanks again!**

Chapter 2

"Harry, do you want some of this?" Hermione asked, holding out a spoonful of something at him. Harry shook his head in what he hoped was polite declination. She put it down, a frown on her face, but she didn't ask. Harry averted his eyes and sighed.

Though they were sitting at the Gryffindor table, it seemed that everyone else was miles away in proximity. Perhaps they were. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, staring at his plate and trying not to glance around. It was his first morning out of the common room, but he was obviously the talk of the school. Various students stared at him, openly whispering and pointing, gesturing at the bright red scar on his forehead. Harry wished that his hair would cover it, but Hermione had given him a trim last night in order to look proper for his big arrival.

"Mate, are you okay?" Ron asked finally, frowning at the lack of food on Harry's plate.

Harry shrugged his shoulders, gazing blankly at his lap now.

"Maybe we should get you to the Hospital Wing," Hermione clucked, her concern growing with every unresponsive gesture. "You haven't eaten at all since yesterday. That can't be healthy."

Harry shrugged again. He'd gone quite a while without food when Remus used to go out on his weeklong trips, as Harry had never really been a hungry person and often forgot to eat when his friend wasn't around. He figured that it was why he was so scrawny and weak, especially when it came to casting spells. Of course, he had learned how to conjure parchment and a quill last night with some notable effort; he'd been thoroughly exhausted just from one attempt. Perhaps he was a freak, like the blond—Draco, that was his name—had said. Harry inadvertently looked up, spotting the shock of white-blond hair on the other side of the room at the Slytherin table immediately; the owner gazing straight back at him with a curious expression. Harry's cheeks heated up and he looked down again.

"Is it Malfoy? Don't pay any attention to him, Harry. He's a jerk," Hermione remarked, obviously having seen the brief silent exchange between them. She shot a glare across the room and Draco immediately looked away.

"He had no right to speak to you that way," Ron agreed, stuffing some unknown substance into his mouth while he talked. "He never really was all that compassionate, though. It's rather typical of him."

Hermione nodded. "He may be a fantastic artist, but he's a horrible person," she said.

Harry frowned and cocked his head in a show of questioning. She tsk'ed and took a parchment out of her notebook for him to write on.

_He's an artist?_

"Yeah," Ron answered. "And a bloody good one at that. He's even got this club we all go to, even though he acts like a complete arse at every meeting. We put up with it anyways."

"We should stop going," Hermione mused.

"I reckon he's got private training," Ron kept on. "Nobody can create that sort of genius without a little bit of help."

Hermione rolled her eyes, and Harry wrote something down, biting his lip.

_Is he really that good?_

"Yes," Hermione answered bitterly. "It's not fair."

Harry leaned forward in his seat, glancing back at the boy in question. Draco was pushing eggs around his plate, clearly not intending to eat them, yet still eyeing the serving bowl as if he wanted more. Harry frowned. Draco was entirely a mystery. On one hand, he made Harry feel like shit, calling him names and sneering at him like he was nothing. Harry hadn't felt that way in years—hadn't wanted to—but somehow, something inside of him ignited when he thought of it. It wasn't anger, no, it wasn't sadness; he knew those emotions too well to mistake them. There was just something about Draco, something that Harry could not place a finger on, that intrigued him. Draco was a bully, that much was certain, but what else was he?

By the time that they were all finished eating, Harry didn't feel like attempting to fit in today. He didn't feel like doing anything. Without taking the time to write an excuse on the parchment, Harry got up and sped out of the Hall, amidst Hermione's loud protests and several whispers of his peers. At the moment, he didn't want to deal with it.

**~x~**

**~x~**

Draco felt like slamming his head against the wall. Both Granger and Weasley were ignoring him, even though he had tried—actually _tried_—to go out of his way to speak to them. He'd purposely taken the long route to class when he knew that Granger's Charms class was on a different floor, although she had evaded him effectively ("Malfoy, is that a spot on your face?"), and he had loudly referred to Weasley as an 'orange-haired oaf' in Potions to agitate him, but it was no use. They weren't listening. Draco grit his teeth in frustration. How much would it take to get out just one tiny little apology?

Of course, Draco hadn't had any intention to apologise to them last night, as he was still reeling from the effects of meeting a mute Harry Potter. But that was just it. He wouldn't have felt bad if it weren't for the boy, and now he did. What was this sorcery? Obviously not something Draco had been taught, as he would've known otherwise. There was just something about those quivering green eyes that made him feel soft and apologetic. And those were two words that one wouldn't ordinarily use to describe Draco Malfoy.

"Granger!" he caught up to her again, grabbing her arm before she could escape. Granger scowled at him.

"Let go of me, I've got class in two minutes," she snapped.

"Never mind that," Draco said quickly. "When do you want to have your lesson?" Truth was, he had no idea how to apologise to an angry Gryffindor, and he wasn't about to learn. Surely, the lesson should be enough to appease her without him having to say the dreaded words. She would comprehend, wouldn't she?

"I don't," she replied bluntly, shaking him off her.

"But you introduced me to Potter, regardless of the turnout. Surely, I must compensate."

"Forget it," Granger spat. "It doesn't matter anymore."

Draco sighed. "Where is he?"

"None of your business."

"He wasn't in class, I just wanted to say—"

Granger whirled around and glared at him. "I think you've said enough," she barked. "Honestly, how dare you? What you said last night is the farthest thing from okay. You really hurt him! That is not the way you speak to a mute person—hell, it's not even how you speak to _any_ person! How about you learn some manners, Draco Malfoy, before you even think about going near Harry again."

She stomped off then, clearly having to get to class in a hurry, and Draco slumped against the wall in defeat. He knew that he had crossed the line the moment the words slipped out of his mouth—especially when he'd seen that look at Potter's face. He didn't know what Granger had been talking about; Potter didn't appear hurt. Worse, it was a look of pure blankness, as if the phrase hadn't even affected him much. As if he'd been called that plenty of times before, or maybe had called himself that at one point. Draco shuddered.

Properly disgruntled, he sighed and straightened up with resolution. He had a free period, he might as well visit his canvas like he always did when he was upset... It calmed him somehow, made him feel better again. He began trudging down the corridor, still slumping a little. If there was a way he could take it back, he would. But he didn't have a clue how to make it up to the boy; he barely knew how to apologise to Granger and Weasley, two people he had known for years now. Perhaps it was hopeless. Draco opened the door to the art classroom, hoping to find his things perfectly in place for him to start. What he saw, however, was complete chaos.

"What the hell?"

He stared at the place, which appeared to be trashed in random places, but perfect in others. There was paint all over the floor as if someone had spilled it and haphazardly tried to clean it up. The canvases were all turned inwards, creating a circle, placed in several different positions. Balls of crumpled parchment overflowed the trash bins. Suddenly, a dark head of hair popped out from behind one of the canvases, obviously having heard Draco's sudden outburst. Draco stood there, frozen. It was Harry Potter.

"What did you—" Draco took a deep breath, not wanting a repeat of last time. The other boy looked wary enough. "What are you doing?"

Potter paused, as if contemplating whether or not he should answer that. Apparently deciding not, he just gave Draco an inquisitive look.

"Me?" Draco felt foolish, as if he were talking to himself. He pursed his lips and glanced around. "I was just coming in to do a bit of painting. But I can clearly discern that you're in the middle of doing... _something_, so I won't stop you."

He turned around to leave, but before he could, a small thump came from behind him. When he looked back, Potter was shaking his head and gesturing Draco towards him, albeit in a somewhat reluctant manner. Draco frowned and stepped forward, entering the strange circle of canvases surrounding him.

The following sight that met his eyes astounded him. It was like a right slap to the face. Upon each canvas, there was a piece of artwork—terrifying artwork, to be exact. The colours screamed at him, the shapes were brazenly obnoxious, as if daring him to come over and rip it apart. On one canvas there was a scene of a crooked house, all darkened and sharp and precise, leaning sideways into the gloom. On another there was a white and orange cat, piercing him with its pale yellow eyes. Both pieces scared him and intrigued him at the same time. Draco slowly looked at Potter, seeing him in an entirely new light. Who _was_ this person?

Potter only pointed at an empty canvas next to him, indicating that Draco could use it if he pleased. Draco approached it and picked up a brush cautiously, now horribly aware of his own artistic shortcomings. How would his work compare to Potter's magnificent show of sentiment? Potter's art was wholly audacious, twisted, spiking every emotion that Draco had ever felt or wanted to feel. Draco frowned at the shapes his hand had decided to make on the canvas, dissatisfied. His was pretty, as always. It was warm with warm colours, warm textures, a warm, dull feeling.

Potter was busy sketching something on the canvas. He didn't seem bothered by Draco's presence at all, which ironically, was disconcerting in itself. Draco would have thought that he would be shuddering in the corner again, or at least a little angry at Draco for what he had said earlier. But Potter was neither. He had no expression on his face. Draco watched Potter's hand move gracefully across the parchment, expressing those emotions that Potter himself could not verbally express—the anger, the fear, the endless disappointment. Draco wondered how he did it.

"What are you drawing?" he blurted out suddenly. Damn, he forgot that the bloke couldn't speak. Draco flushed a little. Why was he so insensitive? Why did he care that he was?

Potter didn't balk, however, he looked at Draco and gave him a tight smile. Then, he took out his wand and flicked it a little, conjuring a piece of parchment, and then again, for a quill. Then he scribbled something on it, handing it to Draco after he was finished.

_It's the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room._

Draco stared at the tiny script written neatly on the parchment and looked up. "It's… it's very different," he managed.

Again, the colours screamed at him in various shades of orange, red, and black. The flames were almost real enough so Draco could feel them licking at his skin, angry about something that he couldn't understand. It was terrifying again, but terrifyingly excellent.

_That bad?_

Draco had hardly noticed that Potter had shoved the parchment underneath his nose again, and he scanned it quickly before protesting. "No! No, it's brilliant," he exclaimed. Then he bit his lip. "I mean, I've never seen artwork with such intensity before. It's utterly compelling."

He had to wonder what prompted Potter to draw like this. Was it the lack of speech? The lack of expression? Draco realised that he hadn't seen a genuine expression on Potter's rosy face since he had first met him, not even when he'd been sitting at the Gryffindor table with his new friends. Of course, Potter hadn't made many friends since this morning; on the contrary, most people seemed to avoid him.

"I really like it," he offered again, gentler. "Where did you learn to draw like that?"

Potter's face lit up a little, his dull green eyes brightening with his smile as he wrote. It seemed to be what he wanted to hear.

_I've had a lot of time on my hands... Sixteen years, to be exact. There wasn't much else to do. _

"Oh," Draco said out loud. "So you've really never met _anyone_ before coming here?"

Potter's face immediately darkened, and he gave Draco a clipped nod, turning back to his canvas. Draco cursed himself inwardly; he hadn't meant to sound condescending when he said that, but it occurred to him that Potter might have taken it that way. He shook his head. Why did he even care, anyhow? It wasn't like Potter could yell at him for it. Draco stood awkwardly at his canvas for a short while, watching Potter work again. Then after a few minutes, he spoke.

"I don't think you're a freak," he amended quietly. "It was rude of me to say that to you, and I'm sorry."

Potter paused in mid-stroke. He put down his brush and picked up the parchment and quill again to answer.

_That's very big of you to admit that._

"Yeah," Draco replied uncomfortably. It was an odd feeling, having those words roll off his tongue. He rarely ever apologised for his wrongdoings, hardly ever even acknowledged that they were there. But this was different. "Don't tell anyone else I said anything, though," he quipped. "I have a reputation to uphold."

Potter studied him for a few seconds, as if trying to process Draco's words. Then he smiled, opening his mouth a bit to let out a silent laugh. Draco stared at him, stunned. He hadn't known how to take that; Potter's little burst of emotion shocked him a bit. And to think that it was Draco who had been the one to elicit that reaction… He bit his lip to conceal his smile and picked up his brush again, briefly glancing over at Potter's work before returning back to his own with a new confidence. The silence was comfortable, to say the least. Maybe he could get used to it.

**~x~**

**~x~**

When Harry finally made his way back to the Gryffindor common room, it was well after dinnertime and he knew that Ron and Hermione would be looking for him. He'd spent the last couple of hours painting and cleaning up with Draco, who had miraculously decided to stay with him the entire time to chat about this and that. Harry had no idea what to think of that. He obviously remembered the snide boy who had mocked his disability the previous night, the one who Ron and Hermione had hailed a 'horrible person', but this boy hadn't been either of those. He was funny, soft, uncertain at times—things that Harry would have never expected from the start. Of course, he had only allowed Draco to come in and join him because he had wanted the acclaimed artist's opinion of his work, but still, he had learned something new. And apparently, Draco had loved it... even though Harry wasn't so sure.

"Harry!"

There was Hermione's voice. She scurried over to him, having been perched on the couch facing the portrait hole for who knows how long. Ron sat there as well, appearing to be going over some homework with another boy. Harry nodded at her, and then at him, before going over to stand near Ron and the dark haired boy by the couch. Hermione followed him.

"Where were you?" came the inevitable question. Harry shrugged. With an irritated huff, she conjured some parchment and handed it to him.

_Soul searching._

"That's not funny, Harry," she scolded. "You missed all of your classes again. How are you going to make up two days worth of assignments?"

Ron rolled his eyes and looked up from his scroll. "Lay off him, Hermione, he's probably just exploring the halls. Hogwarts was the most fascinating place upon arrival, you said so yourself."

Hermione sighed and sat down, encouraging Harry to come sit beside her. He complied. "Sorry, I get a little worrisome sometimes," she admitted.

The dark haired boy sitting by Ron snorted. "A little?" he chuckled.

"Shut up, Dean," Hermione muttered. Dean laughed again.

"By the way, Harry, this is Dean Thomas," Ron announced, and the other boy gave Harry a smile.

"How's it going," he greeted. Harry smiled back at him.

"Oi!" Another boy bounded down the stairs from the boys' dormitory, waving around a magazine as he went. "You lads will never believe what I found in yeh paper!"

"And that is Seamus Finnigan," Ron continued. "He and Dean are in my dorm, along with Neville. You know him, don't you, mate? He passed you the juice this morning."

Harry nodded, still eyeing the overexcited Irish bloke—Seamus. His eyes were glowing with laughter as he waved the magazine in Dean's face.

"You've got to see this—"

"Seamus, mate," Ron interrupted, gesturing to Harry. "This is Harry."

The boy looked up and grinned widely. "Nice to meet you, Harreh," he drawled. Harry smiled at him too. He folded his hands on his lap as Seamus turned back to the magazine and Dean to ramble about who knows what. Hermione clicked her tongue at them.

"Boys," she remarked, shaking her head at Harry as if he was supposed to agree with her. He shrugged. Since he had his own private room, he hadn't acquainted himself with the boys of Gryffindor yet, even though he knew that he should. Having friends around here seemed crucial, seeing as he probably wouldn't find any outside of Gryffindor. On his way back here from the art room, he'd gotten many cold stares.

"So where are you from, Harry?" Dean suddenly asked, pulling him out of thought. Harry blinked at him.

"Yeah, have you been living in London?" Seamus added, now seating himself next to Dean and Ron. Ron nudged the parchment towards Harry, and he took it.

_I've lived in London. Lots of other places too. _

"That's cool," Seamus declared. "Have you ever been to Asia?" Harry paused, then nodded. "Australia?" He nodded again. "America?" he paused, and nodded. Seamus brightened and ogled Harry a bit in study. He seemed to like the result. "Wicked," he breathed.

Ron grinned. "You know Harry, you should think about moving into our dorm," he suggested. "We've got an extra bed, and Dumbledore ought to let you since you've met us all by now. Wouldn't that be brilliant?"

"That's a great idea," Hermione piped up, having put down the book that she picked up when the conversation had started. "It would be good for you to mingle with the boys, Harry. Settle in, perhaps."

Harry motioned vaguely, not wanting to give them a definite answer. He wasn't sure whether he'd be comfortable enough to move into the Gryffindor shared dorms, as he didn't really know the others so well. Besides, he still had his doubts. What if they thought he was weird? What if they discovered that they didn't really like him after all, and then shunned him for it? There was an endless list of possibilities. Harry didn't want to think of them all.

"It's okay," Hermione reassured gently, whispering so that the other boys couldn't hear. "They're nice boys. Well, most of the time. You'll like them, I'm sure of it." Harry smiled at her, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear uncertainly. She smiled back, and then gazed at his bag, which he had left on the floor. "Maybe I should lend you my notes for the past few days," she mused. "You'll need to catch up."

Without a pause, she whipped out her notes from her own satchel before picking up Harry's to place them inside. As if on cue, a flurry of scraps flew out, spreading across the floor like spilt milk. "Oh! I'm so sorry," Hermione said, flustered, now getting up to retrieve the stray parchments. Harry got up too, embarrassed, especially when Ron picked one up and inspected it.

"What's this?" His blue eyes widened as he gazed upon it. "Bloody hell, this is amazing."

Hermione had stopped and picked one up too, staring at it, awestruck. "Is this yours?" she breathed.

Harry blushed furiously, gathering up the rest of his artwork before the others could see them. He took the ones out of Hermione and Ron's grasp as well, stuffing them back into his back and falling back on the couch with a mortified huff.

"Harry, did you draw those?" Hermione asked again. She was gazing at him with slight concern now, no doubt for his strange behaviour. Harry shook his head, not looking anyone in the eye. Even Dean and Seamus had gone quiet under the guise of perusing through the forgotten magazine. Hermione shrugged.

"That drawing was fantastic," she admitted. "I've never seen anything like it before."

Harry nodded noncommittally, still flushing and staring at his lap.

"Mental," Ron agreed, shaking his head. "You'd beat Malfoy by a long shot."

Hermione shot him a dirty look for mentioning the name, and then turned back to Harry with a look of sympathy on her dainty face. "Nobody said anything about Malfoy's work here," she stated. "It's yours that really astounds me."

Harry grabbed a parchment and quill.

_They're not that incredible. I haven't even finished them yet._

"Harry, you're a real artist," Ron declared, ignoring the protest. His eyes lit up at the thought of his own statement. "You could be famous... not that you aren't already, mate." Ron grinned, abashed.

Harry smiled slightly. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. He wasn't used to people praising his work; he had never even shown it to anybody but Draco, not even Remus. He didn't even know what had compelled him to show it to Draco. He wanted approval maybe, but it was more than just want… it was a craving, perhaps, a need. Like he _needed_ to prove that he wasn't just another freak. Why he wanted to prove that to Draco, Harry didn't know. He had never felt the need to prove it to anyone else before.

"Well, it's lovely that you are blessed with such a talent," Hermione piped up. "You should come to art club and give everybody a real show."

"Gods," Ron cackled. "Could you imagine the look on Malfoy's face?"

Harry grimaced. He could. He literally, literally could. He could see in it his mind right now, in fact, the expression Draco had used when he'd seen Harry's circle of canvases for the first time. It was shocking, he had to give Ron that. It would be quite satisfying to see again.

It wasn't as if Harry _liked_ Draco now, he didn't. He didn't quite believe that Draco was truly sorry for what he had said, or had tried to make it up. From what he gathered about Draco Malfoy so far, Harry hadn't even thought that the Slytherin was even capable of an apology. But... it didn't mean that Harry wouldn't let him _try_. Especially when it seemed that Draco was willing to. What kind of person would Harry be if he didn't acknowledge that?

**~x~**

**~x~**

It was a lovely day to be outside.

That's what brought Draco here in the first place, wasn't it? He nestled himself underneath the giant oak tree outside the castle by the Quidditch pitch, scanning the area casually. He was certainly not here because the Gryffindor boys were attempting to teach Harry Potter how to fly. He hadn't even known they were going to be practising today. Draco smiled slightly, pulling up his Arithmancy text and pretending to read it while he watched the pitch. Potter stumbled around like a lost little puppy most of the time, but whenever he got on the broom, he was steady and strong. Draco found that irrevocably interesting.

"Oi, Draco!"

Draco dropped his book in surprise from the exclamation only to find Nott and Blaise striding towards him, carrying their own texts. Well, reckon they were out trying to find a place to study as well. Typical. Draco gritted his teeth impatiently. This had to be the most inopportune moment for them to drop in. Despite his glower, his two friends sat down beside him without asking for permission and cracked open their books, chatting back and forth and clearly not studying at all.

"Could you guys pipe down?" Draco snapped irritably, after a few minutes of quiet laughing from his friends. "I'm trying to study."

"You mean you're trying to spy on the Gryffindor team," Nott revised for him. Draco stared back blankly.

"Oh come on, it's obvious," Blaise said. "You never sit over here."

Nott snickered. "And you've been holding your book upside down for the past ten minutes, I hope you know."

Draco flushed and turned his book over. "Okay, fine, you caught me."

Blaise grinned in supposed triumph. "Right. But I don't get why you're trying to spy on them. Gryffindor is only third out of four for House teams... You know, you should really focus your time and energy on Ravenclaw. I heard they've got some new moves."

Draco hmmphed a little in response, quietly watching Potter trip over his own feet while getting on the broom again, a faint blush on his cheeks from the anticipation of flying. It was a thrilling feeling, Draco knew just how it felt. He smiled involuntarily.

"Blimey, is that Harry Potter?" Blaise exclaimed, peering over at the pitch. "It _is_! Is he trying out for the Gryffindor team?"

"There's no way. Potter's a barmy one," Nott remarked, shaking his head. "He's in my Charms class and he can't speak for shit. If he can fly, my great gran wears frilly knickers."

Draco glanced at him sharply. "He's mute, you know," he retorted, before he could stop himself.

"So?" Nott asked, holding up his hands. "Why does it matter?"

"Uh," Draco mumbled, at the same time that Blaise cried, "Merlin! Did you see that catch?"

At Blaise's outburst, both Draco and Nott turned to look back at the Quidditch pitch. And there was Potter floating in the air, the Snitch in his palm and triumph in his eyes. He was glowing, his whole face lit up in pure joy—it was like the moment in the art classroom times a trillion. Draco couldn't take his eyes off it. It was as if time had stopped and everything stilled; the only thing visibly mobile was Potter, shaking his fists and yelling at the top of his lungs. Well, silently, that is.

"Damn, Potter," Nott muttered, obviously impressed.

"What kind of knickers does your gran wear again, Nott?" Blaise inquired, smirking. Nott punched his shoulder.

Draco nearly felt proud of the feat himself. He watched Potter soar towards his Gryffindor friends, who were all shouting and screaming with jubilation at Potter's victory. Weasley looked beside himself with excitement. Draco almost snorted. "Yeah, Potter's got skills," he remarked, in agreement.

"Hey, it doesn't change the fact that he's odd," Blaise remarked, still watching the Gryffindor. "I tried to ask him for a quill this morning and he merely stared at me for a good two minutes without moving at all. I reckon he wasn't even _breathing_. It was creepy, mate. What if he's not human?"

"Oh come on, of course he's bloody human," Draco grumbled. "He's obviously just got some issues. You should leave him alone."

Nott frowned. "What?" he asked. "Have you met him?"

Draco couldn't sidestep it. He'd already dug himself in too deep. "Yeah, I've talked at him a couple of times," he admitted reluctantly.

"And he's strange, right?"

Draco only shrugged this time, and Nott snorted as if it were a joke. "He is," he laughed. "I don't get why Dumbledore allowed him to come here in the first place. It's awkward. Potter has absolutely no social skills, no brains, and he can't speak, for godssake. If you ask me, he'll be a social pariah soon enough, the Gryffindors can't shield him from us forever. I reckon we can get him to quit by exams."

Draco wanted to defend Potter. He wanted to tell Nott to fuck off and mind his own business, because he didn't know what it was like to be Harry Potter. But then again, Draco didn't know what it was like either. He hardly knew the bloke aside from spending a few extra hours with him in a classroom, and it wasn't as if he wanted Potter to be his friend... although of course, he had wanted that in the beginning. The point was that Nott was right, to an extent. Potter would probably become the school outcast, and Draco couldn't afford to be defending him. Nobody talked directly towards Potter except for the Gryffindors, who would obviously always protect one of their own. The message was clear. Potter just... wasn't worth the risk.

So Draco only shook his head. "Right," he muttered.

"But you've spent time with him, haven't you?" Blaise questioned him. "What's he like, really? He's got to be a shut-in. Look at him, for Merlin's sake, trembling and muttering like an invalid. I wonder how long it took for the Gryffindors to coax him out of his cave. Talk about mental."

"He's not like that," Draco blurted out brusquely. _Damn._

Nott frowned. "How was he, then?"

"He was…" Draco tried to search for something to cover his messy mistake. Even though Nott and Blaise were his best friends, he didn't particularly want them to know that he had spent time laughing and painting with the Boy Who Lived. Like he said, he couldn't afford it. "He was even weirder than that," he stammered. "Destroyed the art classroom for absolutely no reason. He had tried to get me to talk with him after that, but I told him off. Told him that he was deranged."

Nott laughed. "Such a freak," he declared. Blaise laughed too. They had bought it.

Draco looked over at the Quidditch pitch again where Potter was gathering his things to go inside and clean up, feeling guilty for his lie. Suddenly, the green-eyed boy glanced right at Draco, as if he had known the other had been there the entire time, and shot him a tentative half-smile. Draco smiled back weakly.

"Yeah," he murmured. "A freak."

**Author's Note: Chapter two complete! What did you guys think of Harry's art? To be honest, I don't know anything about art, so please excuse any mistakes I made/might make in the future. The most I can draw is a stick figure, and sometimes a circle when I'm feeling it. Anyways, let me know how you like this chapter, what you want to see, blah, blah, blah. Feedback is always appreciated! x**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Sorry that it's been a while, I had finals and then the holidays to deal with, but call this update a little New Years treat for you. I'm very appreciative of the helpful tips that I've gotten and I hope that I will continue to receive them as the story progresses! **

Chapter 3

It was a beautiful Saturday morning. A beautiful, rainy, storm-clouded Saturday morning.

Harry peered out the large four-pane window in his room, his eyes darting to catch the quick trails of water droplets streaking down the glass. Some were larger, some were smaller, and some never even made it across the window. Harry put his finger to the glass and traced the path of a tiny droplet that had only made it halfway across. It stayed unmoving and trapped until a bigger, more powerful droplet ran into it and combined, forcing the tiny droplet to race down the glass along. Harry frowned and looked out at the sky, watching the rain fall from the clouds to the ground, splashing against the grass and pavement below. Was the rain escaping from the clouds? Or was it being set free?

Harry shook his head and turned away from the window, moving to grab his satchel and leave to catch the other Gryffindors back at the common room, where they would all meet before departing to the village near the school—Hogsmeade, if Harry could recall—for the day. Harry hadn't planned on attending the trip, knowing very well that his guardian wasn't around to sign any papers, but apparently Professor McGonagall had personally requested the approval from Remus, thus allowing Harry to go. He was a bit wary of new places, but it couldn't be so bad, right? Especially if he stuck to himself and kept quiet.

Harry walked down the corridor to the portrait and waited for another Gryffindor to come around so that he could slip inside, but there were none around. Slightly frustrated, he looked upon the Fat Lady for help, since he couldn't physically give her the password. She tsk'd at him, obviously annoyed at his supposed incompetence.

"If you want to go inside, you must have the password," she informed him, as if he wasn't aware. Harry gestured towards his throat and shook his head, hoping that she would receive the message. She didn't. "Password," she insisted.

Suddenly, the portrait swung open, causing Harry to jump back in surprise. A crop of Gryffindors swarmed out, chatting and laughing with each other as they moved down the corridor. Harry realised that he'd been too late for the meet-up. He frowned in disappointment.

"Oh, there you are," Ron's voice carried towards Harry, causing him to whip around and look. "We've been wondering if you were even going to show up."

Harry pointed at the portrait, then at himself, and shrugged. Hermione raised her eyebrows. "You didn't know the password? Oh," she frowned and turned towards the Fat Lady. "He can't speak, you know."

The Fat Lady put a large, pale hand upon her breast in supposed surprise. "Well, he must give me some sort of password," she said, remaining steadfast.

"How about the fact that he's Harry Potter," Seamus snapped, and Harry blushed, shaking his head. He didn't want his name to do him any favours.

The Fat Lady sniffed. "Even Harry Potter must have a password." Harry sighed and nudged at Seamus in order to get him to step down, and thankfully, the other boy did. He didn't want to create a spectacle.

Hermione looked at him and gave him a sympathetic smile. "Sorry about that, we'll figure something out. Do you have anyone to go to Hogsmeade with?"

Harry paused, and then shrugged. He hadn't planned on going with anybody; he'd rather fancied the idea of roaming around the grounds himself. But then again, he didn't know Hogsmeade very well, plus, he didn't like the idea of being recognised without a bit of backup. And if anything was to be said about the Gryffindors, it was that they were always fantastic backup. Hermione beamed.

"So you'll go with us, then," she chirped, taking Ron by the wrist and pulling him along as she walked with Harry and the rest of them. "We like to visit loads of interesting shops. For example, there's a sweets shop, Honeydukes, and a bookstore, of course."

"And more importantly," Ron piped up, receiving a flick on the arm for his interruption, "There's a place where they've got all the new broomsticks for Quidditch. It's bloody brilliant!"

"And the Three Broomsticks, we meet up there for drinks later," Dean added, tucking his hand in his pockets as the group exited the castle and ducking his head to avoid the sprinkling rainfall.

Harry frowned a little, feeling slightly overwhelmed by all the new information. To be honest, all he wanted to do was cuddle up in a corner, maybe have a hot drink and do a bit of sketching. Also, he needed to catch up on his schoolwork; perhaps it wasn't the best time to be going out. Maybe he wasn't ready for this. His distress must have shown on his face, because Hermione immediately stopped walking and faced him.

"You don't have to go with us if you don't want to, Harry. We'll understand," she said.

Harry gave her a grateful smile. Ron shrugged. "You'll meet us for drinks in the Three Broomsticks though, won't you, mate?" he asked. "Then we can all head back to the castle together."

Harry nodded eagerly, pleased with his new schedule for the day, and even more pleased by how easily the Gryffindors had taken it. Even though he hadn't made many friends at school, he held much comfort that the ones that he had made were already so relaxed and familiar. Harry smiled at his own feet as they all continued to walk down the path to the village. He wondered if this was how it felt to be wanted.

"So we'll meet you later, all right?" Hermione clucked, as they entered the village. Harry nodded and looked around, hoping to find some kind of direction. She pointed out a sign. "Just look for those," she instructed. "And if you get lost, you know where we'll be."

Harry watched them walk away, waving a little, before peering at the signs to decide where to go. There were many shops that caught his eye, but he remembered his wish from earlier and scoped out the sign that would direct him towards a place like that. Curious, Harry eyed the door to the pub that Dean and Ron had mentioned. Well, he could just go in there and take his own table while he waited for the rest of them to finish their shopping.

Decision made, Harry went forward to the door, pushing it open only to be faced with a bustling pub and several occupants already inside. Harry froze, his heart racing and a nervous shock going through him at the sight of so many unfamiliar faces. What if they ambushed him? What if they wanted to talk to him? He stepped back slowly to leave, but then he scanned the place again and realised that none of them were Hogwarts students. He furrowed his brows in thought. If none of them were students, he wouldn't be bothered by people, as nobody outside of Hogwarts knew that he was there. Right? Probably. Reassured, Harry found a booth in the very back, sliding into the acrylic seat and the furthermost corner of it. He sighed and wound his arms around his own chest, leaning against the table and glancing around. Now that he was safely away from the unfriendly stares, the air felt warmer and the atmosphere was almost pleasant. Harry set his bag on the table and pulled out his notebook and a quill, ready to spend his day how he liked. And when a waitress came to take his order, he calmly wrote it down, although he dearly wished that he could be brave enough to say, 'keep em comin' without even the slightest anxious notion.

**~x~**

**~x~**

"I'd reckon it's charcoal."

"No, it's navy, don't you see the flecks of blue?"

"That's just the lighting. It's definitely charcoal."

"Draco!" Pansy spun around and held out a blouse for him to inspect. "Blaise insists that this is charcoal but anyone with eyes could see that this is _navy. _What do you think?"

Draco sighed and inspected his nails offhandedly. "I think I need a drink," he announced, turning on his heel and striding towards the door. Immediately, he heard footsteps behind him, indicating that his friends were following him as he left the shop.

Normally Draco would have jumped at the opportunity to give advice, as well as to kindly tell Pansy that the garment was definitely charcoal, not navy, and that it was absolutely hideous. He would have been much more interested in the shopping trip, however, he had other things on his mind. Pesky, silent things such as Harry Potter... which was slightly incredible because Draco hardly bothered with anything that wasn't loud and ostentatious. Speaking of…

"Where the _fuck_ are you going?" Blaise shouted, huffing to keep up with Draco's long strides. "Thought you wanted new robes!"

"That can wait," Draco called back. "Like I said, I need a drink."

He didn't know why he had taken such an interest in Potter. Perhaps it was the boy's strange state, or his incredible passion for art, or maybe it was just the lure of mystery and fame, but Draco couldn't pinpoint one to another. They were all synonymous in his eyes; Potter had pricked Draco's interest in a way that nobody else at Hogwarts had ever done. It was intriguing, to say the least.

"Well, slow down, you impatient bastard," Pansy yelled too. "I'm wearing heels."

"Which doesn't even make any sense," Draco snapped over his shoulder, "It's fucking raining, for Merlin's sake."

He didn't wait for them; in fact, he sped up to avoid his hair getting ruined by the rain. As soon as he spotted the Three Broomsticks, he marched right in and shook the water from his coat. Merlin, it was packed today. Draco searched the place for an empty table, hoping to find one that was off to the side so that when he told his friends to shut the fuck up for the billionth time, he wouldn't receive any more dirty looks. It was actually a problem.

"Gods, Draco," Blaise said, as soon as he got inside. "You sure you don't want to go back for a while? It's a fucking madhouse in here."

Draco rolled his eyes, about to spout off a nasty retort, when he spotted a familiar scruffy-headed Gryffindor in the back corner. Sitting alone. "You know what?" he remarked instead. "You two go back, I'm just going to sit down for a while."

"Where?" Pansy frowned. "There are no empty seats."

"Don't insult me, you know that I am perfectly capable of threatening blackmail," Draco pointed out. "Besides, that blouse was… well, it was _lovely_, Pansy. I reckon you should consider it."

With that, Pansy and Blaise bid him farewell, and Draco was free to do as he pleased. Unsure of the receiving reaction, he cautiously made his way to the back table, finding that Potter's back was to him. Draco cleared his throat.

"Is this seat taken?"

Potter immediately whipped around and stared at Draco with wide, confused eyes for a moment before recognising him. Still a bit dazed, the boy shook his head and gestured towards the opposite seat cushion. Draco slid into it easily, trying not to appear too standoffish as he sat there with his hands folded on the table.

"It's rather crowded in here," he remarked, causing Potter to glance up from his notebook to look at Draco.

Potter looked bemused, as always. He went back to his notebook, scribbling something down, and Draco thought he'd decided to ignore him. But just as he was about to get up and leave, Potter tore out a page and pushed it at him.

_I've been here for hours._

Draco frowned. "What? Why?"

Potter placed the page evenly between them and wrote on it.

_Overwhelmed._

"Oh," Draco said aloud. He scratched his forehead uncomfortably. "I thought you'd gotten used to new people by now." Potter raised an eyebrow, and Draco realised how impolite that sounded. "I mean, well," he amended, "I didn't know you still felt like that."

Potter's mouth quirked up.

_How would you know how I feel?_

Draco felt himself flush, which was completely unlike him. He tried to silently banish it from his face, but it wouldn't go away. He rarely ever felt discomfort like this. Never, in fact! "I'm not saying that I am an expert on you," he stammered. "But I know a lot about you, of course… I'm not a stalker, though! I haven't watched you or anything, why would I watch you? You're not anything special. I mean! You are special, you're Harry Potter, obviously, everybody knows you, and you can't even talk—holy _fuck_, sorry!"

Draco's face was on fire now; he had never lost his composure like that. What was that? That was ridiculous! He expected Potter to get that cool expression again and turn away. Why wouldn't he? Draco had just insulted him multiple times. But Potter only stared at him. The mischievous grin had disappeared and his face was like a blank canvas, clear of paint and gunk and all other components, fresh and new and unknown. Draco clenched his fists, muttering another 'sorry' and getting ready to stand up and leave and never come back. Gods, what a fail.

But Potter smiled, genuinely. He picked up his quill.

_Relax, I was just kidding. You're funny, by the way._

Now it was Draco's turn to stare at a smiling Potter, who seemed oblivious to Draco's mishap. Seeing the words on paper and looking at the person who wrote them were two completely different things; Draco hadn't fully connected one with the other until that very moment… he could visibly see that the playful twinkle in Potter's eyes matched the calm banter on the page. Draco wrinkled his brows. It occurred to him that maybe that was the resolution of the mystery behind Harry Potter. He was... real. He was a person, with feelings and personality and thoughts that were all beyond Draco's reach. And for some reason, that was mind-blowing.

"I'm glad that you think I'm funny," Draco quipped, finally starting to loosen up in his seat, "because you can bet your arse I wouldn't have almost died of embarrassment for nothing."

Potter's face broke out into a bigger grin then, and he tilted his head back a little in silent laughter. It was the second time Draco had ever seen that silent laugh, but it still caught him off guard as it had the first time. It was just so different, so foreign. Draco watched the boy's throat, enthralled by how the skin rippled when he laughed but no sound came out. How had that come to be, anyways? Did it hurt?

"How does it feel?" Draco blurted out before he could think. Potter stopped laughing and frowned at Draco, as if in silent question. Draco pursed his lips and glared at the table, annoyed by his own stupidity. "Nothing," he muttered.

Potter was so very still for a while that Draco had almost thought that he'd fallen asleep, until he was shoving the page back at him.

_You want to know how it feels to be mute._

Draco paused; it wasn't a question. Potter's green eyes bore into him now, and Draco couldn't help but nod in confirmation. There was no use hiding it. Potter seemed to read him like an open book, which was entirely inconceivable. It made Draco nervous, to say the least.

After a few minutes of pondering Potter began to respond again, his script becoming really tiny and difficult to read as if it were paining him to write it. Draco held his breath, and after another long pause, Potter passed the page over to Draco.

_It's like this. You see a picture of a young boy in the paper. He's looking at you, and he's laughing, appearing to be having the best time in the world. But when you try and talk with him, laugh with him, he's not listening. In reality, he's not looking at you, he doesn't see you, you're invisible. He's not laughing with you, he's laughing at you, because he can. And suddenly he's not the one trapped inside the picture, you are. He's the real one, and you're not. Nobody hears you talk or laugh or scream or cry, but why would they? Nobody cares. And then you realise that you're alone, forever trapped inside a picture, forever trapped inside your own mind._

Draco read it, and reread it. His breath caught and he wasn't sure if he should let it go. What was he supposed to say to that? Should he apologise? If so, for what? Draco looked up into Potter's gaze now; the Gryffindor had probably been watching him read it. Was he disappointed by the reaction? With just one look, Draco realised that it hadn't been constant confusion he'd detected in those large green eyes earlier, it was something entirely different. It was infinitely bigger and scarier than any kind of confusion Draco could imagine. No, Potter wanted something more, he didn't want an apology. So Draco wasn't going to give him one.

"The art classroom remains unlocked after hours," Draco said, quietly. "I was thinking perhaps you could show me that cat painting again. It was sort of mesmerising, to be honest."

Potter gave him a tiny smile then, as if in gratitude, and nodded eagerly.

_Eleven pm?_

"Excellent," Draco answered, flashing his own sort of rare smile.

_My friends are coming around in a few hours, but until then, I've got a few sketches here if you want to see them._

"I would," Draco consented, and Potter reached for his notebook to show Draco his work. Draco refrained from slapping his own face at how pleased he was that Potter was letting him in. But perhaps that was what Potter had wanted. A chance.

"Waitress," Draco called, waving one over. "We'll have two Butterbeers, and keep them coming."

**~x~**

**~x~**

And so it went. For an entire week, Harry found himself sneaking off to the art classroom every night at 11 pm to meet Draco and swap tips and techniques. He had discovered that Draco was much more interesting when he was alone and unguarded; his eyes shone brighter and his laugh was louder and his smile was wider. Harry supposed that it was fascinating to see the many sides of people in different environments… it was like a slap in the face in terms of reality. Not many people were actually who they pretended they were, and Harry saw that from the very start in Draco. The curious thing, however, was that Harry couldn't figure out what Draco was pretending for. But then again, he suspected that Draco didn't even know the answer to that inquiry himself.

"Do you want your trunk over here, mate?"

Harry snapped back to reality as Ron gestured towards the foot of a four-poster bed where Harry's own trunk lay, neat and tidy compared to the rest of the room. Harry nodded absently, and Ron brushed his hands together in contentment.

"Brilliant," the redhead exclaimed. "I'll be right back, I'm going to go tell Hermione. She's going to be so bloody excited to hear that you've moved in." Ron rolled his eyes and moved towards the door, stopping and clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder before he did. "I'm really glad you are, though. Moving in, that is. It'll be so cool to have another roommate."

Harry gave him an easy smile and Ron grinned back, loping out of the room and closing the door behind him. After looking around some more, Harry went to his new bed and sat down on it, slightly overwhelmed. He had finally decided to take up on Ron's offer and move into the boys' dorm after being pestered about it by half of Gryffindor, although he had been thinking about it himself too, so it wasn't entirely their fault. Truthfully, he was getting bored having his own room, and Draco had mentioned that he wouldn't trade his dorm mates for the world... well, unless it was a _really_ good deal. There had to be some merit in that.

"Harrrrry!" the door shot open again, revealing an ecstatic Seamus with Neville, Ron and Dean trailing behind him. "Welcome to our Cave!" the Irish boy exclaimed.

"What the bloody hell is that?" Dean laughed. "Did you just make that up right now?"

Seamus looked around at all of the confused faces. "What? You've honestly never heard of a man cave?"

"That sounds like a cult," Neville said.

"Wow. I am merely stating that we are very manly men," Seamus complained. "But you've all gone and ruined it. Now Harry won't think we're cool."

"Don't listen to him, Harry," Ron whispered loudly. "He's mental."

"Oh please," Seamus scoffed. "What are _you_ even doing here? You're not a manly man. In fact, I reckon Hermione's got bigger balls than you."

The whole dorm burst out into rowdy laughter, yelling, and general chaos at that. Harry had never seen such a sight, but he couldn't help cracking a smile as well.

"I resent that," Ron remarked sourly, although the grin on his face said otherwise.

"Um, yeah, well, welcome to the dorm, Harry," Neville announced, coming over to him and giving him a shy sort of smile while the other boys continued to banter. Harry smiled back at him, relieved that Neville seemed to be a quiet type like him. "I reckon it'll take about ten more minutes for this to subside," Neville continued, pointing at the other boys. "And someone will have someone else in a headlock in approximately two. I suppose now would be a good time to take advantage of the showers, if you wanted to." Harry nodded in appreciation, getting up from his spot on the bed to gather up his belongings. Sure enough, by the time he had ventured for the restroom, Seamus had Dean pinned to the floor.

Harry stepped into the showers immediately after undressing, letting the warm water spill over his skin like rain. For a moment, he felt like a droplet, flying free and aimless down a glass window. Maybe he was the tiny droplet that couldn't move by itself, and maybe this move was the powerful droplet that helped it along. Of course, Harry wasn't normal—he would never be normal—but if he could come close, damn it, he would.

As he began to scrub his hair thoroughly, he remembered the example that he'd given Draco about how it felt to be mute. It was a true story; Harry recalled nicking one of Remus's Sunday papers and seeing a picture of a young boy on the front. He was smiling and laughing as the cameras flashed in his face and he was holding an award that Harry couldn't coherently remember what was for, clearly enjoying the spotlight. Harry's chest had felt tight and his eyes had stung, and at first he felt jealous—why couldn't he be the one who smiled and laughed like that, who held an award like that? And then it occurred to him: people wanted to look at that boy's picture because he had done something right. Harry never had.

Harry's chest felt tight again as he toweled himself dry and dressed, but he chose to ignore it as he reentered the dorm room, where the other boys had seemed to calm down and were now all sitting up in bed, still chatting. Harry climbed into his own bed and sat up too, not really sure whether or not this was a normal occurrence. He wasn't used to having people around when he was in bed. Although, he also wasn't used to going to bed early… Wait, it was already 11: 10 pm… Draco! Harry hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. He was late! He swung around so quickly he almost hit his foot against one of his bedposts, scrambling to find his shoes at the end of his bed. His sudden movement had alerted his roommates though, and now they were all staring at him.

"Um, what are you doing, mate?" Ron asked curiously, watching Harry shove on his shoes.

Harry gestured towards the door, and then to his wrist, as if indicating that he was late.

"Wrist…? What does that mean?"

"Hell if I know."

"Are you going to meet a girl?" Seamus asked loudly, his eyebrows raised.

All the boys began oooh-ing and clucking.

"A girl, Harry!" Ron shouted. "You've never mentioned a girl!"

"Who?" Dean demanded, but Harry couldn't answer, so the others began answering themselves.

"I bet it's one of the Patils," Seamus declared.

Ron snorted. "No, he doesn't even know them."

"Well, how about Ginny then, eh?" Seamus teased.

"Watch it," Ron growled.

"Hermione!"

Ron looked horrified. "No!"

Harry was extremely uncomfortable now. Also, he was still late. Draco would be waiting for him. Harry shuffled his feet nervously and gestured towards the door again, and his friends stopped guessing to look at him.

"Wait, Harry. You've got to give us something," Dean pleaded.

"Yeah, we're roommates now," Seamus added. "We share."

Neville snorted, lying down on his pillow. "Leave the poor bloke alone."

Harry sighed and pulled out quill and a page from his notebook and scribbled something down on it. Then he held it out to Ron, who had held his hands out. The redhead snatched the page from Harry eagerly, smoothing out the creased edges before reading it. "Nice try," Ron recited aloud. He pouted. "Aw Harry, you're no fun!"

Harry grinned cheekily at them and left the room before there were any more questions, though he highly doubted that his roommates would mind his quick escape. To be honest, Harry didn't think it wise to reveal that he was sneaking off every night to meet another boy and discuss art tactics, because it just didn't sound very… _normal_. And Harry very desperately wanted to at least seem normal, even if he wasn't. Of course, even when they were all discussing girls and late-night meet-ups, Harry wasn't normal; he had never even kissed a girl, considering he hadn't known one before he came here. It couldn't hurt if they didn't know.

Harry crept through the halls quietly, making sure to avoid any open areas or potential noises. He was used to being invisible, he was good at it… and it really came in handy when he had to creep around at night. His chances of being caught were extremely slim. Once Harry arrived at the classroom he found the door already slightly open, the way Draco always left it, and he pushed at it to go in. Draco was already in there, seated in front of a canvas, although he hadn't painted anything yet. Upon hearing the door open, though, Draco turned around quickly, and a look of relief spread across his face.

"Oh good, you're here," the other boy drawled, picking up his brush. "I thought you'd ditched me." Harry shook his head. He'd never do that intentionally, especially because there weren't many people who would care if he did anyways. "Well, sit down then. Let's get started."

Harry sat down next to Draco, picking up his brush as well. They were both quiet for a long while, each in their own little world, before Draco spoke up again.

"Do you always paint like that?"

Harry looked up at Draco, realising that he'd been watching Harry paint for a while now. Draco's grey eyes scanned Harry's canvas with deep interest. Harry shrugged, not knowing what else to do.

"I mean, where do you get that from?" Draco continued. "It looks so natural. Do you ever feel like you're drawing empty? I mean, drawing for the sake of drawing, and not for how it makes you feel. Sometimes, I... Well, I mean, it's complicated. Does that make sense?"

Harry only stared at Draco, now completely unsure of how to respond to the flurry of questions that the Slytherin had thrown at him. Obviously sensing his confusion, Draco groaned and rubbed his temples. "Never mind," he mumbled. Harry began to feel horrible for not being able to communicate properly, but a few moments later, Draco turned back, seemingly excited.

"Do you know sign language?"

Harry frowned, and Draco took that as a no. "Well, you see, it's a faster way to communicate than writing it on parchment. I had lessons as a child—don't ask me why, I had lessons for everything back then—and I could teach you. That way, it doesn't have to be so quiet all the time."

Harry shrugged. If Draco was willing to help, then he was up for—Harry yelped as Draco grabbed his hands out of the blue. What was going on? He wanted to write something down, but Draco shook his head.

"Wait, no. You use your hands for sign language. Like this," Draco made some shapes with his fingers in the palm of Harry's hand. It tickled a little, but otherwise wasn't unpleasant. Harry stared at it. "Now, I'll teach you the alphabet and you can memorise it, and then we can talk like that," Draco offered.

Harry nodded, and Draco began to put shapes into Harry's palm at first, and then the air as he progressed, letting him scan the signs for memory. And after about a half-hour of practising, Harry was able to recreate the alphabet back. Draco seemed very pleased with that, and Harry felt like glowing.

"I don't know many phrases," Draco admitted, after going over the alphabet one more time. "I'm only positive of one, which is this," he took Harry's palm again gently, folding two of his own fingers down and lying three of them flat. "It means… well, it means 'I love you'," he muttered.

Harry was positive that he heard a hint of_ something_ in Draco's tone, but it was just barely detectable, and in a moment it was gone. Questioningly, he looked up to meet Draco's eyes, but they were downcast. "I've never used it," Draco added. Harry just looked at him.

Draco took his hands away from Harry's and glanced away, clearly now a bit uncomfortable with the tense atmosphere he'd accidentally created. "It's late," he stated, glancing at his pocket-watch. "Almost one. We should go, we've got classes in the morning."

_Yes, _Harry agreed, using his hand to create the letters. At least it made Draco brighten a little when he did.

"You can practise those for tomorrow night," Draco insisted, picking up his things.

Harry smiled and nodded. _I'll see you tomorrow then, _he spelled.

"Tomorrow," Draco repeated, his thin lips quirking up as he headed towards the door. "Bye, Potter."

Harry frowned. _My name is Harry, _he prompted.

Draco froze, as if it had never occurred to him. Perhaps it hadn't. "Right. Bye... Harry," he revised.

He then forced a smile on his face before whirling around and closing the door behind him, leaving Harry to his own thoughts. How strange. Harry collected his things slowly, still amazed at the fact that Draco Malfoy, the boy whom his Gryffindor friends despised, sat down and spent time with him every night. And for what? Harry didn't know. He probably would never know.

Harry got up from his seat, tucking his used canvas into his bag to stow away in his trunk for later. As he did, he noticed that Draco had left his canvas sitting there. It was a painting of what Harry could only guess was a Slytherin dorm, with four-poster beds similar to those in Gryffindor except that they were forest green instead of red. In the middle of the dorm, there was a large window, and outside that window was a universe full of brilliant, glowing stars set atop a perfect midnight sky. But the window was bolted shut with thick panes and a large brass lock, as if ever touching anything beyond that would be forever impossible.

Harry looked at it a while longer, hoping to find a piece of a person in there. With little success, he picked up the canvas and tucked it into his bag to study later. As he opened the door to walk out, he turned around and glanced about the room.

_Tomorrow, _Harry spelled. _And many more._

**Author's Note: I hope I'm not moving too fast. I expected this to be about 10-15 chapters, but I'm not sure anymore. Anything can happen! Anyways, thank you for reading this chapter, and I do hope that you will stick around for more! Reviews and suggestions are greatly appreciated xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: So the reason for the quick(ish) update is that my winter holiday is coming to an end and I wanted to get another chapter out here for you guys before I drown in school work. Thank you so much for your responses, I'm very pleased to note that sign language will be extremely helpful here!**

Chapter 4

"Draco, do you reckon we should have green cups, or would that be too cliché? Wait, whom am I kidding? It's perfect!"

Draco groaned and tried not to smack his own forehead as Pansy flittered around the common room, counting 'inventory' and stock for the Slytherin House party tonight. There was an assortment of cups, plates, food, music, magical games, and of course, alcohol, scattered around, cluttering the area. It was getting on his last nerve. Normally, Draco loved these parties—it was an easy way to get girls and get smashed while, at the same time, keeping all the dirty bits safe and secret within the House. But tonight, the party started at approximately 11 pm instead of the usual midnight, which would mean… Draco sighed. He wouldn't get to see Potter.

He began to roam around the room, pretending to take 'inventory' of said green cups while Pansy harped at him. And it wasn't as if he could skip the party, either, he'd never done it before and he certainly couldn't afford to do it now. Besides, he was the Slytherin leader and it was his duty to be there. He'd just have to explain that to Potter. But would it really matter anyways? Was the boy really that attached to their late night meetings? Draco frowned. Ironically, he himself would rather be with Potter than go to the party anyways, not that he'd ever admit it out loud. Ever.

"Draco, quit moping around and help me out here," Pansy demanded, standing and gazing at a pile of plates, biting her nail worriedly. "Do you think we'll have enough?"

Draco stared at her for a minute. He could do it. He could tell her no, he didn't want to attend the party. Or better yet, he could sneak off before she noticed and pretend he wanted to get a good night's rest. It couldn't hurt to try, right? "Pansy…" he began.

She looked at him earnestly, her worry now directed at him. "Yes, Draco?"

"I…" he gulped a little. Why was it so difficult to admit to one of his best friends? What was he afraid of? Draco sighed. "Never mind," he muttered.

"Good," Pansy declared, looking back to the plates. "I mean, I'd love to have a deep, meaningful conversation right now, but I'm a bit busy. You know how important this particular party is, right?"

Draco pursed his lips in annoyance at her blatant sass, but shook his head anyways. She rubbed her forehead tiredly. "Well, it's the first one I've ever been in charge of planning... And Blaise reckons I'll fuck it up, but I'm determined to prove him wrong. You'll help me, won't you? Don't forget, it's not just important for me," she waggled her eyebrows now, "it's the first one Astoria's planning on attending. You know how she feels about you."

Draco winced. Of course he knew. Everybody on the entire fucking planet knew that Astoria Greengrass had always had a big fat crush on him. It wasn't that he had a problem with her, per say; she was all right, not too annoying, and very beautiful, of course... but she was two years younger than he was. A Fourth year! And even if she wasn't a Fourth year, she just... well, she just didn't do it for him. Yet everybody—including his mother and father—expected him to fall for her. His father had even mentioned a marriage in the coming future. Marriage! Draco couldn't even imagine.

"And you know how I feel about her," he responded flatly.

Pansy frowned. "Come on, Draco," she said. "You know it's going to happen someday or another. Why not just accept it now?"

He scowled a bit at that. Secretly, Draco hated it. He hated the tradition family rules and the idea of marriage to a woman he hardly knew. He hated how his parents had just assumed that he would go along with it, hated how they were probably right, he would. But it wasn't fair... because really, he had all this _potential_—he could do great things for the world, things that could only be hindered by having a wife so early in life. But of course, he'd never publicly argue against his father. And so he had no choice.

"Sure," he muttered, leaving Pansy to get back to her work. He turned around to count the plates now, but then paused, remembering Potter. "Say, do you happen to know when the Gryffindor team has practise?" he asked.

Pansy furrowed her brow in thought. "I think I've heard Nott mention that they've got practise every other day at four," she remarked. "Ends right about now, in fact. Why?"

Draco immediately dropped the plates and flashed her an innocent, dazzling smile. "No reason. But excuse me, I've got to go deliver an important message," he announced. She rolled her eyes, but waved him along.

Draco grinned and turned on his heel to grab a heavy cloak from his dorm, seeing as it was starting to get chilly this time of year, plus, it would give him a bit of anonymity as he went on his mission. It's not like he could really explain his tricky situation if he were to get caught. Once he had retrieved his cloak, Draco left the dungeons and walked briskly through the castle, throwing the cloak over his shoulders and propping the hood up to conceal his telltale platinum hair as he made his way outside towards the Quidditch pitch.

When he arrived, he saw that Pansy was right; Gryffindor was just finishing practise as he entered the pitch. Immediately, Draco noticed a sweaty, glowing Potter exchanging gear with his teammates and silently laughing, throwing a brilliant grin at his redheaded friend in response to something he'd said. Draco held back the urge to smile. Potter was a recent addition to the Gryffindor team as their new Seeker, which also happened to be Draco's own position in Slytherin. Of course, Draco was the best in the school—had been for a number of years—but there was talk that Potter was incredible. Draco grimaced, then. That would just be one more thing.

After a few more minutes of playing around, the team began to head for the showers, Potter lagging a bit behind with his broom. Draco took the opportunity to sneak up behind them to get Potter's attention. "Psst," he hissed. Potter turned around and gave him a wary, curious look before recognising him and smiling a little. The gesture sent a pang of guilt through Draco's chest, but he tried to ignore it. He pulled Potter away from the crowd of Gryffindors, letting the team go ahead until the two of them were alone. Potter's expression went back to wary at the insistence.

"Hey," Draco greeted, shuffling his feet a little and crossing his arms. Potter frowned and pointed at Draco's cloak and hood, shrugging in confusion. Draco sighed. "I didn't want to be seen by your teammates," he confessed. "They would have thought I was cheating." Potter raised an eyebrow as if to question that, but Draco shook his head. "I'm not," he began slowly. Should he tell Potter the truth? "I just… I wanted to let you know that I can't make it tonight. I've got… well, I've got a study session with Blaise."

Gods, he was _such_ a girl. Potter frowned in response. Then he reached forward and grabbed Draco's hands, catching him by surprise. It took Draco a split second to realise that the Gryffindor was trying to spell letters out to say something else.

_You sure you can't make an excuse? I really wanted to talk with you about something tonight._

Draco's instincts immediately screamed 'do it', commanding him to muster up the courage to assure Potter that he could find a way to ditch his so-called study session. He bit his lip. Ultimately, his inner coward beat his little voice, like always, and he ended up shaking his head no. "It's imperative that I attend the session," he lied. "Blaise is doing terribly in Arithmancy and if I don't help him, he'll fail the next test."

Potter looked disappointed, but he nodded anyways, letting Draco's hands go. Then he gestured in the direction of the showers, indicating that he had to go wash up and change before the place closed down. Draco wished he could take it all back, but he knew that it was too late and the damage was done. Gods, he felt dirty. Even though Draco had lied numerous times before—on a daily basis, even—it was different this time because this was Potter. And Potter... was just so innocent and trusting and, well, _Potter._ Draco fought the urge to curse. Perhaps the worst part was that Potter didn't even seem angry or suspicious about the lie.

"Right. See you tomorrow night, then," Draco said lamely, and Potter smiled at him again before walking away. Draco watched the Gryffindor go, feeling horrible and disgusting and wrong... but also, strangely relieved.

**~x~**

**~x~**

Harry clambered up towards the Tower, running a hand through his freshly washed hair and dragging his dirty Quidditch uniform in tow. Merlin, he was tired. Since he'd just started practise last week, he wasn't as in shape as everybody else, and laps had been particularly killer today. Harry took a large gulp of air, silently huffing as he climbed the stairs two at a time. It was worth it, though. Flying was an absolute dream; when he was on a broom, he felt as if he were amazing and wild and free like a bird soaring through the air, going wherever it pleased without restraint. It was sort of like the same feeling he felt when he was drawing, though, it was more of a physical journey than a mental one.

After a few more minutes of trudging upstairs he finally arrived at the portrait, reaching into his bag and pulling out his trusty notebook to write down the password for the Fat Lady. She allowed him in, grudgingly (she and Hermione had had a long-lasting argument about the password rules before Dumbledore had ultimately stepped in on Harry's behalf), and Harry walked into the common room without a problem. Immediately, he found Dean and Seamus huddled together on the couch, so he went towards them.

"… left them in the showers, the dumb oaf, I could shrink 'em to fit me," Seamus mused, just as Harry came up and waved hello. "Oh, hiya, Harrreee-rreeh-rrreeh!" he exclaimed in a sing-song voice.

Dean grinned. "How's it going, Harry," he chirped.

Harry shrugged, and then tilted his head in question of their activities. Both boys snickered. "We've decided to infiltrate the enemy tonight," Seamus whispered, glancing about the room as if it were a secret. Harry raised his eyebrows with interest. The enemy?

"Slytherin," Dean added, obviously because of the perplexity on Harry's face.

"We've got their House robes, mate," Seamus tittered. "Stole 'em from Crabbe and Goyle. We reckon we could get a few good minutes in the snake pit before they recognise us. But it'll be too late; by then we'll have ruined their fun."

Harry half-smiled. His friends were going to attack the Slytherins? Well, this wasn't the first time they'd talked about it, although typically it had been bedtime talk in the wee hours of the night when nobody actually knew what they were saying. Male bravado and all that. Harry, of course, had just listened during these ridiculous declarations, and this seemed to be another one of them. Just in case though, Harry might have to drop a hint for Draco at dinner. Just in case. He couldn't have his new friends ruin his other new friend's night. It just wouldn't be fair.

Harry grinned a little at the thought of Draco. Over the past few weeks he and Draco had been getting closer, and ever since the boy had decided to sit next to him in the Three Broomsticks Harry had let it happen. He had to admit that he liked Draco's company, and even though he loved the Gryffindors, it was nice to have a fresh break from them every once in a while. It was just too bad that Draco couldn't make it tonight… Harry furrowed his brow and readjusted his bag on his shoulder, the bag that still contained Draco's painting he'd taken a while back. He had really wanted to discuss it with Draco, wanted to know what it meant. Draco was always talking about how he couldn't create the emotion in his paintings that Harry did in his, but this one… Harry remembered the stars and the bolted window and frowned. He'd stared at it for hours after getting back from the classroom, trying to figure it all out, but it was no use. All he could decipher was that the image was oddly familiar, almost as if he himself had dreamed something like that before; he was certain it had tripped some unknown alarm in his brain.

"Oi, guys, over here!" Seamus called, causing Harry to look up and see Ron climbing in through the portrait hole with Hermione trailing behind him. He gave them both warm smiles.

"Hi mate," Ron greeted, flopping onto the couch immediately and closing his eyes with a sigh. "Sorry I'm late, Hermione insisted that I go with her to the library after practise to get some ruddy book."

Hermione pursed her lips. "It's not some 'ruddy book', Ronald, it's our homework text. Which you should really get started on, honestly. It's due tomorrow."

Ron opened his eyes and snickered loudly with Seamus, which earned the two of them death glares from Hermione. The brunette made a noise of disapproval before turning to Harry and shaking her head. "You've started, right, Harry?" she asked, with hope.

Harry avoided her gaze guiltily. He had _meant_ to, but…

"For Christ's sake," she grumbled, pulling out the text from her bag and opening it. "You boys are all useless. You'll have major work to do tonight, and don't expect me to let you cheat off of me again. I will, however, go over the material with you later, as I don't have plans."

"Oh, but _we've_ got plans tonight," Dean said, his mouth stretching into a broad smile. Seamus nodded happily and Hermione groaned, turning to Ron for confirmation. The boy shrugged. "Sorry, Mione, it's important," he insisted.

Hermione's eyes were like lasers. "How is sneaking into Slytherin and crashing their stupid party more important than your grade?" she demanded.

Harry's ears perked up. Party? Nobody had said anything about a party earlier. Instantly, his curiousity was piqued.

"It's more complex than that," Ron mumbled, and Hermione snorted at the insinuation.

Well, now Harry just had to know. He jumped forward with vigor, grabbing his friend's hand to ask without thinking about it first. Ron stared at him incredulously. "Um, yes, Harry?" he asked, although he had a nervous lilt to his voice as if he'd suspected Harry had gone mental.

Harry blushed, quickly releasing Ron's hand and then sitting on his own. He'd forgotten that it had been Draco who'd taught him sign language, and that nobody else seemed to know it. Not even Hermione, which was odd, since she knew almost everything. Harry bit his lip, giving Ron a pleading look and hoping that it would convey his message.

"You want in, Harry?" Ron asked excitedly. Harry wrinkled his nose. No, that was not it.

"Absolutely not!" Hermione cried for him. "It's insane enough that the three of you think you can sneak into another House's common room, but do you really believe that the Slytherins are dense enough to let in _four_ poorly disguised idiots, one of them being Harry Potter? I think not."

As soon as she was finished, she stood up and stomped away to another corner of the room, huffing, and Ron, Seamus, and Dean all made similar noises of annoyance. Harry sighed. They would have to deal with her later, but for now… he pulled out a piece of parchment and a quill, scribbling down his real question and tossing the page at Ron. The redhead picked it up.

_Why are the Slytherins having a party?_

"They have parties all the time," Dean explained, after reading over Ron's shoulder. "Crazy parties. I've heard that they all get so fucked up that anybody who goes there a virgin leaves a wanton whore," he chuckled mischievously. "The Slytherins think it's some big secret but everybody Fourth year and up knows about it."

Harry frowned. So Draco knew about these parties? Had he ever gone to one? Well, obviously he had, he was a Slytherin. He had to have gone at some point. Harry tried to imagine the typically calm and collected Draco Malfoy stumbling and falling all over himself, but it was a tough sight... and Harry didn't even want to question the 'wanton whore' comment. But tonight, Draco was studying, so Harry didn't have to worry about him getting trashed, right?

_They don't invite any other Houses? _he wrote instead.

Seamus snorted. "As if. They don't want all of their shameful, drunken secrets spread around the school... although, of course, it's already too late to prevent that. They should really just include everybody else and save us the trouble... But no, it's a private event for Slytherins only. And any Slytherin who's anyone goes to the parties, it's almost mandatory."

"Personally, I want to see Malfoy get fucking wasted," Ron announced, snorting. "I reckon he's had every slut in Slytherin in those expensive silk pants of his."

"How would you know he's got silk pants?" Seamus teased. Ron turned bright red and began to sputter, although no coherent words were coming out.

Dean began to chortle. "I bet you five Galleons he's had done it with Malfoy too!" he shouted.

"Who hasn't!"

The two of them began to go wild hooting at Ron's expense, but Harry could feel his heart sinking. If what they were saying was true, Draco had just blown him off for a _party_… a party where he'd get smashed and have crazy sex without a care in the world. Harry felt a pang in his chest. Draco had_ lied_ to him. It was a strangely surreal feeling, remembering who someone really is. He'd just spent so many hours alone with Draco that he'd almost forgotten.

Harry got up from the couch without another comment, trudging towards the stairs to go back to the dorm room and put away his stuff. He pushed open the door, throwing his uniform on top of his trunk and his bag on the bed. Draco's canvas fell out of it, and Harry stared at the colours. Surprisingly, he wasn't angry at Draco for lying or for wanting to go to a party rather than spend a night in a dank old classroom with him. To be honest, he was a little angry with himself for letting his guard down so easily. He was still so naïve, everything was so new and exciting for him, obviously he couldn't expect Draco—or any of the others, in fact—to slink along at his slow pace. It just wasn't fair. Still, he wondered how someone so insightful and artistic as Draco could have this whole other persona that Harry hadn't even one clue about. He had to admit, it hurt just a little.

"Hey, mate?"

He turned around to find Ron standing at the door, scuffling his feet at the floor as if ashamed. Harry shoved Draco's canvas back into his bag and then frowned in question as Ron came closer to sit down on the bed next to him.

"Sorry for talking about Malfoy," Ron muttered, his eyes lowered. "I didn't realise that it still bothered you. I know that he hurt your feelings."

Harry gazed at his friend, almost surprised to remember that the other boy didn't know of his budding friendship with Draco. Ron had just assumed that Harry was upset at the mention of the name. Harry smiled almost sympathetically for him as he took out his notebook again to write a response.

_Did Hermione tell you to say that? _

Ron cracked a guilty smile. "She saw you run out and told me that I had to apologise for whatever I said or else she'd tie me to a desk and force me to finish all of my homework from the past week," he admitted. Harry snorted silently. Ron laughed, and then sighed. "Really, Harry, what's wrong? You did run out of there pretty quick."

Harry looked down at his lap uncertainly. He didn't want Ron to be angry at him for being upset over Draco, especially since Ron didn't know anything about his past few weeks painting with the Slytherin. Harry felt a rush of guilt; why hadn't he told his friends in the first place? It was just… all he wanted was to fit in. Maybe he'd lost his sense of reason along the way. Ron pushed the notebook at him in encouragement, and Harry picked up the quill, sighing.

_I didn't know Draco went to those parties._

Ron read it, and his brow furrowed immediately. "Draco?" he repeated, spitting the name as if it were a deadly disease. "Last time I checked, it was 'Malfoy'. And since when do you care what he does?" Harry looked down at his lap again. Ron grimaced, as if sensing his own sour attitude. "Just… explain to me, mate. I'll shut up, I swear."

Harry drew in a breath. Well, he ought to just come clean.

_Truth is, he came up to me and apologised for the way he acted, and I didn't believe him at first, but I agreed to spend a little time with him and after a while I started to. We've been painting. Drawing. I wanted him to teach me things but it turns out he's got more questions than I do, we've been meeting up every night and that's where I've been sneaking off to for the past few weeks. And... we're really starting to get along. But tonight, he lied to me about going to the party and I don't really know how to feel about that._

After reading the whole truth, Ron looked as if he wanted to burst into several different emotions. His mouth hung open and his face turned red, then purple, then red again. Harry winced and bit his lip. He hated making his new friend angry, but least it was all out in the open now.

"I just… you're_ friends_ with Malfoy?" Ron spluttered.

Harry paused, then nodded.

Ron took a deep breath, as if to calm himself down. "Um okay, that was… _unexpected._" He was choosing his words carefully. "But do you see why we were warning you before? Draco Malfoy is not a nice person. He's deceptive and he doesn't care about anyone else's feelings but his own. I mean, he lied blatantly to your face, doesn't that say something? If you want to learn something about art, Harry, you can read a book and get the same results without that entire nasty blond Slytherin thing going on. Besides, you're already fantastic at drawing. You don't need any help from him."

Harry peered at his redheaded friend. Well, obviously Ron was biased, because he didn't like Draco, but he had a point. Draco shouldn't have lied. But then again, Harry should have seen it coming. Troubled, Harry just shrugged his shoulders and Ron folded his arms across his chest. "We should talk to Hermione about this," the redhead advised thoughtfully. "She hates being left out of the loop."

Harry nodded in agreement. Ron got up from the bed and then held out a hand for Harry to help him down, but the door slammed open before either boy could move. Seamus bounced in, rather excitedly. "Harry, you're supposed to go to the Headmaster's office immediately," he reported gleefully, rocking on his heels. "McGonagall says it's extremely important."

Harry frowned and climbed off the bed, gathering his stuff into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder as he headed for the door. Because of the urgent tone, Ron trailed after him worriedly down the stairs, and Hermione glanced up and joined them as soon she saw their looks of dismay. Harry swallowed back his confusion and fear, hard. What could possibly be wrong?

**~x~**

**~x~**

Draco didn't know what he hated more, having to go to a party that he didn't want to attend or having to listen to Blaise rant about said party he didn't want to attend. Both made him want to tear his hair out, and his hair was bloody fantastic, so that was saying something.

"And I told her that we needed at least four crates, but she only ordered three," the darker boy huffed, waving his hand around in exaggerated motions. Draco was getting a little bit dizzy, in fact. "She insisted that we only had three last time, but I know for a fact that we had five crates of Firewhiskey because I fucking ordered them myself."

"And_ I_ do not fucking care," Draco muttered, glaring at the ground as they walked. Pansy had sent them on lookout while Nott and Daphne Greengrass smuggled more alcohol in, and now Blaise was raving about the amount Pansy had acquired. As if that was the central issue at the moment. Draco scowled and shook his head.

"Merlin, what's your problem?" Blaise scoffed, plucking at his sleeve for invisible lint. "You've been testy for hours."

Draco glowered at him. "Fuck off, I'm not testy," he spat.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Clearly," he murmured. "Well, if you're worried about tonight, don't be. You look good. And I'm sure there will be plenty of refreshments to go around, despite Pansy's idiocy."

Draco sighed and looked down at himself. He had on his best trousers and his grey and onyx button up under his school robes, which were casually unbuttoned, his hair was slicked back with a relaxed amount of gel and his skin glowed with a simple Charm. Of course he looked good, he always looked good—but he didn't feel good. He felt horrible, in fact. It was almost 11 pm; almost time he should meet Potter, except he wasn't. Draco had wanted to ask Potter if he wished to meet earlier, perhaps, right after dinner, but the quiet lad hadn't shown up to dinner, and neither had Granger and Weasley. It was... well, it was bloody strange. Something about that didn't sit right, and it was causing him even more discomfort than he already felt from lying. Draco scowled. Why was he going through all this fucking trouble for a bunch of Gryffindors?

At the lack of response, Blaise sighed in obvious defeat. "We should head back," he reasoned. "The party's probably started and it's already been at least ten minutes so I reckon Nott and Greengrass have already gotten the stuff. Let's go."

Draco shrugged without complaint, turning on his heel to comply. Blaise had just begun complaining about the lack of miniskirts in the female population at Hogwarts when suddenly, they both heard noises at the end of the corridor. It sounded like approaching footsteps. Draco and Blaise glanced at each other, knowing very well that it was after curfew, and ducked into the shadows of the corridor to wait it out. Draco bit his lip and held his breath. Great. This was just his night.

"…bloody mental, I tell you," a male's voice floated across the hall. Draco frowned. It sounded eerily familiar…

"I'm really scared for him, Ron."

Ah. Granger's pitchy voice rose above the shadows and Draco let out his breath, annoyed. It was just Granger and Weasley. What the hell were they doing out right now?

"Do you think he'll make it?" Weasley asked anxiously.

Granger hesitated. Draco could see her bushy hair shake back and forth. "He has to," she whispered. Then all of the sudden, she made a horrible, strangled gasping noise. "Oh gods, maybe we should go back!"

"No, he wanted to be by himself. We should leave him alone for a while."

Granger made another teary noise, and soon both her and Weasley passed by without a second glance. Blaise pressed up against Draco's shoulder. "What the hell?" Blaise muttered, and Draco shrugged, although worry was starting to creep over him like water turning into ice. Had they been talking about Potter? What was wrong with him? As soon as the two Gryffindors had gone around the corner, Draco and Blaise stepped out of the shadows.

"We should leave," Blaise hissed, brushing the cobwebs off of himself. Draco nodded slowly in agreement, although truly, all he wanted to do was be alone for a moment to think. "Maybe you should make sure Weasley and Granger don't run into the Slytherin crowd first," he muttered.

Blaise was immediately alert, pulling out his wand from his robes pocket. "I'll handle it," he promised.

Draco watched him disappear around the corner after the Gryffindors before sighing deeply, rubbing his forehead with a frown. Where had Granger and Weasley been all day? With Potter? Draco hadn't seen the Gryffindor since that afternoon, when he'd told him the lie about why he couldn't meet tonight. Draco worried his lip a little, guilt washing over him like a current. Gods, he should have stayed with Potter; fuck all of his friends. At least then he would know what was going on.

Of course, he knew that he couldn't really do anything unless he made a move, and it was obvious that he had to attend the party at some point. As Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath, composing and readying himself to go back to Slytherin, there was a sudden buzz of something flicking by his ear softly. When he looked down at the ground, a mashed up piece of parchment lay between his feet. Apprehensive but curious, Draco picked it up and unwrapped it to find handwritten words there.

_You look really nice tonight._

Potter? Draco whirled around quickly, and sure enough, the Gryffindor boy stood there, toying with the quill he'd obviously just written the note with. Gods, Potter was quiet, Draco hadn't even heard him coming. And he was all right, it seemed! Draco felt a rush of relief and joy go through him.

Potter tilted his head and stepped closer, gesturing at Draco's outfit again. This time, he used his hands to speak.

_A bit too nice for studying, don't you think?_

Oh. Draco's heart sank a little as he studied Potter's face, which was clean and blank and wiped of emotion, the way it always looked whenever he was hiding it. It was obvious that Potter knew, somehow.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out, face flushing. He seemed to be saying that a lot these days.

Potter remained stoic.

_It's okay, really. I know that there are more important things than midnight drawing._

Draco frowned. Really? No disappointment? No anger? He peered at Potter's face closely; trying to detect a flash of something in there, but there was nothing. Blank. Suddenly, Draco got the icy water feeling again as he realised that maybe Potter's face wasn't like that because he was angry with Draco for a little white lie. No, it looked like something entirely more important, as Potter had so cleverly stated... it was then that Granger and Weasley's anxious conversation began to make a bit more sense.

Draco moved closer to Potter too, close enough so that they were only an arm's length away. "Is everything all right?" he asked slowly.

Potter stared at him. His eyes seemed to bore straight into Draco's soul, as if crying for help, but also as if locking everything in; a huge mess of conflict and bewilderment. The look frightened Draco. Something was not right. Something was definitely not right.

_Everything is fine, _Potter signed. His hands were shaking though, discrediting his statement further.

"Harry?" Draco asked quietly, reaching out to calm him.

Potter looked away from Draco, finally, but he put his hands in Draco's outstretched ones.

_Go to your party, _he spelled into his palm.

Draco started to say something, but Potter immediately whipped his hands away and whirled around, disappearing down the corridor and leaving Draco standing there, panicked and disturbed.

**Author's Note: ooh, the conflict begins. Again, I hope that it isn't going too fast. So I've hinted that a tentative friendship has formed between Harry and Draco, but yes, to be clear, I've also hinted that it has been a few weeks of painting so it's not like hey! Instant friends! Anyways, comments and questions are always welcome. I'm very sorry if this is the last chapter for a few weeks, like I said, I'm going back to school, but I hope this is satisfying enough for now. Thank you for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Thank you guys for your lovely responses and suggestions, I will keep them in mind as I write! By the way, I'm writing this as quickly as I possibly can, so excuse me for any mistakes—got to scrounge up something before the weekend finishes and I'm super busy again. Thank you again, and hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 5

_Snip._

"You cannot expect him to go through with this!" Professor McGonagall's stern voice rang around the corner.

_Snip._

"He can't even perform a simple wandless spell without becoming fatigued. How is he supposed to deal with something of this proportion?" she continued, at a higher pitch.

_Snip._

"Minerva, would you mind terribly?" the Headmaster's voice was soothing and cool and the intervals of snipping ceased then; he'd put down the clippers. He seemed unperturbed, despite the alarming matter at hand. "This plant is rather droopy. I believe it needs further nutrients."

"Did you even hear what I said?" McGonagall snapped. "He's just a boy!"

Harry slumped down on the bench directly outside of Dumbledore's main office, wishing he were anywhere but there. He had a vague idea of what they were arguing about—him, of course—but he hadn't been informed of much. When he'd been called here last week, all he'd received was a theory and a prediction. Nothing more. And still, it had been just enough to turn his heart cold with imminent fear.

Gods. Harry sighed and drew his knees up to his chest, burying his face in them. He hadn't slept for a few nights already, but he couldn't bring himself to, even when his dorm mates had attempted to coax him into it by combining their pillows and blankets and camping out on the floor with him. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, his nails digging into the side of his leg almost painfully. He appreciated the sentiment, but… this couldn't be fixed purely by sentiment. No matter how much he wished it could.

"Harry, dear boy," Dumbledore called out, bringing Harry back to reality. "You may come back in."

Harry stood up wearily, trudging back into the office with his head hung a little. Upon entrance, he could immediately discern the pained expression on McGonagall's face, and the placid one on Dumbledore's. The Headmaster gestured towards a seat, and Harry took it patiently, even though all he wanted to do was scream-silently, of course.

"Lemon drop?" the man inquired benignly, now pointing at a small glass bowl filled with the yellow tinted candies. Harry shook his head in polite declination. He wanted to hear the truth—and so far, he hadn't gotten even close. Dumbledore made a noise of agreement. "I understand that it has been a particularly trying week for you," he began. Harry nodded. Professor McGonagall stood off to the side, her lips pursed into a thin line. "I am sincerely apologetic for springing the situation upon you without further background on it. Let me explain at present."

Harry's eyes fell upon the plant Dumbledore was still hovering about, watched as the man lovingly Charmed it with a few spells to keep it spry and alive. He looked away immediately. Why couldn't magic do that for people? Fix them like that; make them perfect and whole again. Gods, what he wouldn't do for just one day where he could be the person he wanted to be. Where he could be normal and happy and anonymous and everything was so _simple_. What had he done to deserve this?

"You know what happened to your parents, I presume," Dumbledore said softly.

A pang went through his chest. Harry blinked, then nodded.

Dumbledore inspected his face for a moment, and then turned back to the plant. "The full story, I must say, is a tragic one. One we do not want to have repeated."

Harry didn't particularly care much for Dumbledore's cryptic speak. He wished that the man would drop the pleasantries and get to the point. Despite being shielded away for so long, Harry had always hated waiting—Remus often accused Harry of being tirelessly impatient. And Professor McGonagall must have deciphered the very same feeling in his expression, as she was now straightening up to speak.

"To put it frankly, the Order has confirmed what you had been warned of last week," she paused, sighing deeply, her eyes resting on Harry's scar sympathetically. "He's back, Potter. He's back and he's got his eyes set on you."

The blood in Harry's hands seemed to freeze immediately; they felt like ice blocks weighing down his arms. A cold sweat was pouring down his temples like an insistent rain. Maybe his heart stopped, he couldn't be sure. All he knew was that it was true. The darkest wizard of all time—the very same one that had brutally killed Harry's parents—was _back_, with a black vengeance. And he wanted Harry dead.

Despite the heavy, blaring silence in the room, Dumbledore perked up. He seemed to sober now, his gaze strong and fatherly as he put a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. "Fortunately, he is still very weak. My sources confirm that he has not fully recovered yet. Though… I must warn you, he has the ability to regain his strength to the equivalent of that from the height of his power, and you… you are the only one who can truly defeat him."

Harry's mouth dropped open, shocked and questioning, but Dumbledore continued. "We've contacted Remus, and we have concluded that you shall continue to stay here at Hogwarts, as he cannot keep a full-time watch over you anymore with his imperative duty to the Order."

Harry gaped like a fish; how was this possible? He could hardly conjure up a piece of parchment, defeating a Dark Lord was entirely out of the question. Couldn't somebody else do it? Why did it have to be him? Gods, he could already imagine it. He'd be dead in his quarters before sunrise. The Headmaster finally seemed to sense Harry's fear, because he squeezed his shoulder lightly. "Do not fret, Mr. Potter. Security is as tight as ever on campus. If there should be an evil wizard lurking about, you can anticipate that we will be well aware of him before he has a chance to find you."

Appearing to be finished, Dumbledore turned back to his plant, and Professor McGonagall took Harry's arm gently to ease him out of his chair in preparation to go back to Gryffindor. Harry stood, a bit wobbly, and willed the tears not to fall until he was completely alone. He didn't want anybody to think that he needed to be taken care of. He didn't want any more pity as it was. On the way out, though, Dumbledore spoke without turning around.

"In preparation for the future, you will have additional Defence classes each weekend after supper. An Order member will be available to assist you." Dumbledore now turned around and winked, an assuring smile gracing his lips. "You are a great wizard, Harry. You just need to believe it."

Harry nodded blindly; his self-control had refused to cooperate and now his eyes were stinging with hot tears that tasted like salt and hopelessness when they dribbled over his lip. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair! McGonagall led him back to the common room swiftly; her brisk walk and determined expression enough to keep the other students from inquiring of the situation. Harry kept his face down and eyes shut. He didn't want to see anybody and he didn't want anybody to see him. It was as simple as that.

Once the Professor uttered the password for him and guided him inside, she bid him a gentle goodbye, leaving him to the emptiness of the common room. Harry plopped down on the couch, wiping his damp eyes with the sleeve of his robes. He knew that his friends were all busy—Ron, Hermione, and Neville were at art club with Draco, and Seamus and Dean were 'studying' outside by the giant oak. Harry didn't particularly mind the loneliness though. He didn't believe in the phrase 'misery loves company'; he'd always hated it, feeling so vulnerable. He'd never want to spread that to somebody else. Besides, he was already vulnerable enough physically, with his lack of speech and social skill—why make the pity worse?

Harry picked at the couch material and sighed, letting his rapid breathing slow again. So, he was on the run, hiding from an invisible evil—what was new? He'd always been aware of the possibility that he'd be facing imminent danger again someday. That's why he'd been kept under wraps all of these years, and Remus had told him that there might still be Death Eaters tracking Harry. He'd also hinted at the fact that they'd never found any remains or actual proof that Voldemort was dead, which, of course, made sense now. Harry shivered at the thought of the name. _Voldemort._ It sounded almost as sinister as the actual man himself… if he was even a man to begin with. Because what sort of man held so much hatred in his soul?

There were sounds coming from outside of the portrait now, and Harry vaguely remembered that other people existed. He stood up and headed for the boys' dorms, even as a few arriving Gryffindors called out enthusiastic 'hellos' to him. He was mute, damn it; he should be allowed to keep to himself once in a while. Harry sighed, closing the door behind him and climbing into his bed, pulling the covers over his head. Pretending to be normal was rather tiring sometimes.

**~x~**

**~x~**

"Keep your lines steady," Draco murmured, passing by a quivering Hufflepuff student on his normal rounds.

The classroom was unusually quiet for a weekday. Typically, he'd hear the blasted Gryffindors making a racket in the corner of the room, which would induce scolding from the Ravenclaws, and mediating from the Hufflepuffs, and finally laughter from the Slytherins—but there was none of that today. The causes of the usual commotion were, to put it lightly, unusually quiet. Draco sighed irritably. Neither Granger or Weasley had attempted to take a stab at his bossy orders earlier, Longbottom wasn't fretting over his colour palette, and damn it, Draco hadn't seen Potter in over a week! The Gryffindor hadn't come to any of their late night meet-ups, though Draco had tried every night just in case, and he was rarely in class anymore. Draco gritted his teeth. Had it been the lying, or the party? Or was it something else?

Draco remembered Potter's shaking fingers and awful lying. It had been difficult to look at. Potter had tried to play it smooth, but it seemed every day that passed, the carefree façade thinned more. And of course, Draco had done the only thing he knew how: he'd gone to the Slytherin party and gotten drunk as hell. And then he moped, snapping at anybody who had tried to come near him… it was an almost guaranteed healing process by now. But for some reason, it wasn't working this time.

"That's atrocious," Draco muttered, gesturing at Longbottom's canvas absently. The boy didn't react, but Weasley turned around and glared at him.

"Why don't you leave him alone, Malfoy?" the redhead growled.

"Why don't you mind your own business, Weasley?" Draco spat back.

Now Granger spun around, appearing to join in the game. It was starting to feel more like art club now. "You're a right arse, Draco Malfoy," Granger muttered quietly. "Can't you go for two seconds without harassing someone?"

Draco turned his nose up at her. "No. And for the record, he was asking for it. I never bother messing with things that aren't."

"That's a lie!" Granger hissed now, her warm brown eyes growing hard. "Gods, you never stop, do you?"

The look in her eyes was achingly familiar—as if someone was stomping all over her heart but she was brazenly attempting to hide it. The kind of look that made the viewer want to hang his head and apologise profusely until the expression went away. Draco quickly realised that it was the same way Potter looked at him. Well, it was painfully obvious now. Granger and Weasley knew how he'd lied. But why was it such a surprise?

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but Granger cut him off. "Show a little respect, Malfoy. Lie to anybody else in this school, laugh and mock and throw insults at us—but don't you dare hurt Harry. He doesn't need this—or _you_—right now."

"Better yet, just leave him alone too," Weasley muttered.

Draco blanched; he didn't have a response to that. This was just too weird. He turned away without another word, slightly shocked at himself. Of course he'd known that Potter's friends would be angry and defensive (they always were), but not like this. It was almost…unforgiving. Had he really hurt Potter so much? Again, the fleeting thought of _something else_ passed through his mind. Draco bit his lip, waving his pupils off as the clock chimed, signifying the end of the meeting. If he really wanted to know, he had to get Potter alone again. Which would be considerably more difficult, seeing as Potter refused to meet him. Draco breathed in deeply. But he had to find a way.

**~x~**

**~x~**

"Bye!"

"See you later, Harry!"

Harry waved his friends goodbye, receiving enthusiastic waves back before the group began heading out of the Hall to go the library. Ron and Hermione were slightly more hesitant, but he gave them a shaky smile to reassure them, and they eventually left as well. After they'd gone from the table, Harry sighed, picking at his food and offering a feeble nod to Ginny and Parvati across the table. He'd given Ron and Hermione the lowdown before dinner, and they'd reacted as he suspected—Hermione freaked out, Ron swore excessively—and they both vowed to stick with him. Harry shook his head, a warm feeling spreading through his chest. It was odd: though they hadn't known him very long, they'd constantly been by his side. And now they were willing to give him their time and energy to help him defeat his fears. Harry smiled at his plate. Some may say that it was just Gryffindor valiance, wanting to overcome evil and save the world, but Harry thought it more as friendship. True, pure, friendship. And that was all he wanted anyways.

Suddenly not hungry at all (or willing to pretend he was), Harry pushed his plate away and signaled to the rest of the table that he was going back to the common room. After a few goodbyes, he stood up and headed out of the Hall, resting his back against the stone wall and rubbing his forehead as soon as the doors shut. He couldn't stop thinking about it; it had been haunting him for hours now. What made him so special that a notorious Dark wizard would care if he lived or died? He couldn't even do magic, he couldn't even _speak_, for Merlin's sake. He was nothing special at all. And that was what he didn't understand. Sighing, Harry pressed his face into the palms of his hands. Gods, he was way past fear—he was exhausted. How was he supposed to do this by himself? He wasn't a hero like Ron or Hermione. He didn't know how to be.

"Oh-hey."

Harry immediately whipped his hands away from his face, looking up to find Draco standing there, his hand still on the door as it was closing. Funny, Harry hadn't even heard it open. He frowned. He had almost forgotten that he hadn't met with Draco for a week—the stress from his new situation had kept him from it. Of course, Draco could be going out of his mind right now, but Harry rather doubted it. It was understandable why Harry would freak out about a few missed meetings, but Draco? The Slytherin probably had a million other things to occupy his time.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Draco began. His back was straight and his shoulders were set back, bringing him to his full height. Harry had to tilt his head slightly to look at him. "I'm a bit… I mean, I'm sort of, and I was—" Draco looked away and ran a hand over his gelled hair. He took a deep breath, and then looked back at Harry with a sort of determination. "I was worried. I _am_ worried."

He began to reach forward and touch Harry's shoulder gently, but a sudden noise at the door made him jump back. Professor McGonagall strode out, and upon seeing Draco reel back, narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "There shall be no House animosity here," she clucked. Clearly, it was odd for them to be out during dinner, and even furthermore that they were from rival Houses. It was only to be assumed.

"We weren't fighting, Professor," Draco stated politely. His eyes were down at the floor though, as if he were ashamed, and his tone was cool. Harry glanced at him, and then back at his Head of House, nodding in agreement with his companion. McGonagall's features softened.

"My mistake, boys. But let it be a warning just in case," she instructed sternly. Both Harry and Draco nodded, and she swept away, disappearing down the corridor. After she was gone, Harry looked back to Draco, and the Slytherin was gazing back at him, his expression full of sincerity and concern again. Harry sort of hated that, how Draco could turn his emotions off and on at leisure. Emotions were supposed to be natural and spontaneous, with no planning or trickery or switches. Of course, Harry liked Draco—the blond was exciting and interesting and there was just something about him that drew him in. But… this wall between them was more than just audible. It made it harder to discern what Draco was really feeling... if he was even feeling at all.

"Like I was saying—" Draco began. Harry shook his head, putting a finger up to the other's face to interrupt before reaching into his bag and pulling out his notebook and a quill.

_Don't worry over me. It's not your concern, _he wrote.

Draco scanned it, and his brows immediately drew together. "Look, I like to think of you as a… a friend," he confessed. Harry raised an eyebrow, and the other boy almost looked sheepish. "I know I've lied and insulted you a few times… but well, I mean, here's the thing. I treat all of my friends that way. I'm not trying to be condescending, it just _happens_." He looked away again and sighed. "I suppose what I'm trying to say is, nobody's ever called me out on it like you did. You took me by surprise, you know? It's just weird… different. You're different."

Harry hadn't particularly been looking for an explanation—not even an apology—but Draco had given it to him. Then again, he didn't know exactly what he was expecting from the other boy, so maybe he had wanted it. Needless to say, it felt good to hear and to know that he was important enough to induce such a response from the great Draco Malfoy. But that matter wasn't why they were standing here, and they both knew it. Harry gave Draco a little smile to show that they were fine, and Draco seemed to breathe a sigh of relief before speaking again.

"So… care to tell me what's really wrong?" he asked.

Harry fiddled with his quill for a moment before responding.

_It's complicated._

Draco frowned. "How so?"

Another pause. _It involves… well, let's just say that I may be unwell soon._

Now, Draco looked slightly panicked. He kept it well hidden in his facial features, but the glow in his eyes was nearly impossible to conceal. "What? Are you sick?" he questioned.

Harry began to write something again, but looming footsteps caused him to turn around once more, Draco at his side. This time it was Hermione, and she stopped in her tracks upon seeing the two boys standing in such close proximity. "Harry!" she exclaimed, looking him over with confusion. And then her eyes went to Draco, and they narrowed. "Malfoy. What are you doing out here?"

"We're talking. What are _you_ doing here?" Malfoy answered coolly, his mouth set in that straight, thin line Harry hated.

Hermione pursed her lips as well. "I needed to discuss something with Ginny—but um, excuse me, could I talk to Harry for a moment?" Draco gestured at her to proceed, and Hermione shook her head. "In private," she added.

With an exasperated huff, Draco rolled his eyes and pulled out his wand. "Fine," he muttered, obviously getting ready to put a spell on himself so that he couldn't hear them.

Hermione shook her head again. "I can't trust you," she insisted. "You're going to try and listen in. I'll put the spell on you."

At that, Draco balked. "What if you try and hex me?" he demanded to know.

"Then you'll have gotten what you deserve," Hermione stated plainly. Draco grumbled, but didn't resist as Hermione cast the spell upon him. Once the grumpy Slytherin was completely unable to listen, Hermione turned to Harry. "I thought you hadn't spoken to him in a while," Hermione started. Harry knitted his eyebrows together in mock dismay, and she rolled her eyes. "You know what I meant."

Harry sighed and flipped to a new page of his notebook.

_I hadn't, but he ambushed me while I was leaving the Hall. He's concerned, Hermione… at least, I think he is. He just wants to know what's up._

Hermione scowled. "He can't possibly be dense enough not to know that he's hurt you—if he is, well, I've genuinely overestimated him."

_Not that. I guess he's gotten to know me pretty well, because he's noticed that I'm a bit off. Because of, well, you know._

Hermione's eyes widened. "You're not going to tell him about—" she glanced around again to make sure they were alone—"_you know what_, are you?"

Harry paused, and then shrugged. And then nodded. Why shouldn't he? Draco was just as much of his friend as Ron and Hermione were… well, with a little more lying and dishonesty, but it was just his Slytherin nature, wasn't it? It was just the way Draco was. There was nothing that he could do about that.

Hermione seemed to think otherwise. She was shaking her head with disapproval. "Harry, he's a Slytherin," she whispered fiercely. Harry stared blankly back; he'd already established that. She sighed. "I mean, _he _was also a Slytherin; You Know Who. That House is the home of notorious ex-Death Eaters… Malfoy's father included. In fact, Lucius Malfoy had been among one of the highest ranks in You Know Who's loyal faction. And I suspect that at least fifty percent of the current members of Slytherin are against you—and not just because you're different or odd to them."

Harry let out a short breath, and then looked over at Draco, who was still standing there looking irritated. Draco had never once mentioned his father in all of the hours they had spent together painting. Sure, Harry had revealed quite a bit about his parents and Remus and his lonely lifestyle, but up until this very moment, he hadn't realised that Draco hadn't done the same. In fact, the Slytherin rarely say anything about his family, keeping very tight-lipped, other than the occasional 'that-is-what-I-got-for-Christmas' story. Harry had to admit, it was suspicious. But he couldn't bear to think that Draco Malfoy—no matter how fickle and showy he was—could ever be against him in that way. It was just so beyond everything he'd ever believed in.

_I don't know. He's never tried anything before. He hasn't even said anything about the matter at all._

Hermione sighed. "I'm not saying that he's one of them, but it is a possibility, and I just want you to be careful what you say. This is a life-or-death situation, Harry. And he's… he's a twisted boy with a twisted family who wants you dead. If I were you, I wouldn't take my chances."

With a snap of her wrist, the spell upon Draco was broken, and the Slytherin boy brushed off his robes disdainfully. "Took you long enough," he drawled.

Hermione glowered at him for a moment. "Don't let me hold you up," she muttered, heading for the double doors to the Hall again. Once they were completely shut, Draco turned back to Harry. There was a long, uncomfortable silence again.

"So…" Draco said, after a while.

Harry only stared at the floor, still conflicted. Was Hermione right? Could he trust Draco with this monumental secret, or was it a horrible idea? Maybe Harry had always been too trusting—Remus tended to say that about him as well—but he'd liked to believe that had been a good thing. But perhaps not.

_We can talk about it later, _he wrote finally.

Draco's strong features became a bit more prominent at that, as if he were suspicious of Harry's new motives after talking with Hermione, but he didn't argue out loud. "Sure," he agreed. "Let's start tonight. Eleven pm in the art classroom, as usual. I want to work on finger art next week, I was hoping that you could shed some light on that."

Harry nodded, pulling a forced smile as the other boy studied him. Still, Draco didn't comment, opting to produce a tight grin of his own. "I'll see you then," he announced, saluting Harry quickly before turning on his heel and stalking off in the other direction. Harry watched him go, still torn, and sighed. Merlin, having friends was a lot harder than it looked.

**~x~**

**~x~**

"Fuck!"

Draco rubbed his foot and squeezed his eyes shut, hopping up and down as he let out a string of muttered curses under his breath. Damn it, Blaise! Draco had explicitly explained to his friend that he couldn't keep leaving his textbooks by Draco's trunk, because he seemed to trip over them almost every fucking day. He scowled into the darkness, but he didn't make a racket. It was after two am; his roommates were sleeping and he couldn't wake them up by having a fit. He'd stayed with Potter longer than usual tonight, painting and talking, although it had taken an additional period of time before Potter had loosened up again. The boy was still undeniably tense, that much was obvious. But Draco didn't want to push.

Draco sighed and tiptoed towards his bed. Of course, he'd tried to talk to Potter about the puzzling matter tonight, and the boy had made up some excuse about a huge exam coming up, but Draco knew better. He was the master of lying, he could always tell. Obviously, Granger had said something to Potter that had kept him tight-lipped, and although Draco was a bit peeved at that, he couldn't blame Granger for it. Draco himself had a lot of secrets he'd probably never tell anybody else. It was just a fact of life. He'd just have to wait until Potter was comfortable enough with him again.

Weary from his own thoughts, Draco drew back his curtains of his bed—and almost had a heart attack. Blaise and Nott were both sitting there, calmly, each reading his own leaflet in the dim light of their wands. Upon seeing him, the Slytherin companions gave him twin fake expressions of shock and delight.

"Oh, hello there, Draco," Nott breathed into the darkness. His face glowed with playful mischief. "Fancy seeing you here! Beautiful hour, isn't it?"

"You bastards scared the shit out of me," Draco hissed, his chest heaving a bit as his heart rate began to slow. "Why the hell are you two in my bed?"

"That's a good question, Draco," Blaise countered, putting down his leaflet and leaning forward with a suggestive grin. "Here's a better one, though: why weren't _you_?"

Draco looked away, unable to come up with a proper response at the moment, and his two friends began to laugh. "I knew it!" Nott exclaimed. "Who was it this time? Greengrass? God, I hope so. She's such an unbearable gossip, you know. I'll have the whole story by lunch."

Draco grit his teeth. "I wasn't with a girl," he muttered. "I was taking a walk. Clearing my head."

Blaise yawned. "Boring," he remarked. Draco shot him a dark look, but the other boy seemed unaffected. Nott nodded in agreement.

"Well, you better start thinking about it, Draco. I've just received news that I'm to be engaged right after school lets out the summer after next," Nott announced, puffing out his chest in an attempt to look proud and haughty.

"To whom?" Blaise inquired, now appearing curious. Draco, on the other hand, could not be less curious. All he wanted was for his idiot friends to get off his bed so that he could sleep.

Nott shrugged. "An old family acquaintance," he mused. "I'm to receive a photograph in my next letter. My father says it's an award for getting Potter's blood."

What? Now Draco's attention was spiked. "Potter's blood? What the hell does he need that for?" he demanded.

Nott only smirked. "No clue. He merely said that it was a duty he must fulfill, and so therefore it was my own duty—do you remember when I was forced to partner up with Potter for Potions a few weeks back? Ugh, he was awful, worse than Longbottom, even—never mind that though. I purposely nicked his finger and soaked up the blood on a cloth to send to my father. He was very pleased."

Draco frowned. That was… odd. Why would anyone want Potter's blood? Vaguely, Draco thought of Nott's father—arrogant, deceptive, stringy—very much like the Nott that sat here in front of him. For some reason, Draco didn't like the idea of anybody having anything that belonged to Potter. Not only was it creepy, but it felt… wicked. Like something was off. At the very least, it couldn't be a good thing for Potter. Slowly, Draco looked back at his two friends, who had gone back to chatting together like gossiping girls.

"Are you loyal to your family's morals?" he asked suddenly. Both Blaise and Nott immediately stopped talking and stared at him.

"My father is older and wiser than I am," Nott said firmly. "And besides, I have to be. He's all I've got."

Blaise didn't say anything, but that was understandable. Draco was silent again for a moment before turning to Nott to elaborate.

"But what if you suspected that your father was serving the wrong side?" he asked again.

Nott leaned forward, his eyes glistening with something that Draco could not decipher. "There are no wrong sides," he murmured. "Only winners and losers; the dead and the living. You've got to be careful which one you choose."

Then he gave Draco a wink, sliding off the bed with a lithe hop, and Blaise followed him, a strange expression on his face. Draco climbed onto his own bed now, pulling the curtains shut and curling up to press his face into his knees. He didn't know what to think… all of the sudden he was questioning everything he stood for, everything he had always been. And for what? A boy he had just met, a boy who was so different than he? Draco breathed in slowly and closed his eyes. Perhaps things were becoming a bit too complicated for him to handle. Perhaps getting into this whole Harry Potter business had been a huge mistake.

**Author's Note: And there we go! I've presented a major conflict like this because I know it can't be ignored—Voldemort has not been defeated. I realize that some of you might have come into this fic thinking that it would be all centered around Draco and Harry dealing with the disability, but I wanted there to be more than that. I do hope that it ties in nicely, however. Thank you guys for reading, and I'll try to update as soon as I can! **


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: I'm updating rather rapidly (for me), whoohoo! Anyways, in the last chapter notes I had forgotten to mention something about the sign language between Draco and Harry. I had written that they sometimes signed into each others' palms, which I was later informed is only necessary when the signer is blind and/or deaf. So, apologies for that! I also apologize for future reference, in case I do it again. Anyways, onward!**

Chapter 6

_Bang._

Draco dropped his paintbrush and whirled around, jumping a bit at the unexpected noise. Potter was storming into the classroom, later than usual, his green eyes flashing with more annoyance than Draco had ever witnessed as he slammed the door shut behind him. Potter dropped his bag immediately and marched up to the easel beside Draco, and Draco was certain that if Potter could speak, he'd be muttering under his breath by now. But since he couldn't, they both sat in awkward quiet for a few minutes.

"Hello to you too," Draco announced loudly, breaking the tense atmosphere after a while.

Potter nodded shortly in response, gathering his pencils and the rest of his supplies from a nearby bucket. Draco frowned; it wasn't like Potter to be so abrupt. "Yeah, I'm fine, thanks for asking," he remarked, the familiar sarcasm dripping from his words. He didn't like to use such attitude on the Gryffindor, mostly saving it for the Hufflepuffs in his way in the corridor, but it seemed a fitting time. Besides, Potter had now turned to him with a dry look.

_Sorry, I'm tired, _he signed.

"Why the hell are you tired?" Draco snapped, picking up his brush again and turning away. He couldn't help it if he was offended, much lesser things had caused it before and he hadn't let the offender get away with it then, either. If hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, a Malfoy was probably ten times worse than both combined. "You didn't even attend classes today, not like that's a surprise."

There was silence, and for a moment, Draco thought that Potter would ignore him. He snuck a peek over at the other boy, who now seemed to be in some sort of inner conflict… and for some reason, it looked as if Potter were debating whether or not he should confide in Draco. Draco sighed, exhausted already. He wasn't much helping his chances of finding out what was wrong with Potter if he kept barking at him like this. It was just so damned natural for him to yell rather than sympathise.

"I'm sure you have your reasons," he said gruffly, painting a rough, staggered line on his canvas. Potter looked at him again.

_I take extra Defence classes after supper, _Potter signed. _I usually have them weekends but my instructor couldn't make tomorrow. Today was especially grueling._

Draco gazed at his friend. Well, he couldn't blame Potter for being frustrated over that. The poor boy had troubles simply levitating a cup, and Defence was a difficult subject to master, even for Draco himself. What a challenge that must be. And it certainly solved the mystery for why Potter never came to regular classes, since he seemed to have his own private studies. Draco sighed, shaking his head. The perks of being a mute Chosen One, honestly.

Potter was looking at him expectantly for an answer, so Draco gave him a weak smile. "Go ahead; be as moody as you want. Merlin knows that I, of all people, shouldn't be able to comment on _that_," he quipped.

Despite Draco's advice, Potter grinned back at the joke. _You certainly shouldn't, _the Gryffindor agreed, before turning to his easel, the smile still on his lips. And for some reason, Draco couldn't help but feel a bit good for cheering up the lad.

"Well, how was it then?" Draco piped up, after a bit of silence. Potter glanced at him questioningly.

_How was what?_

"Defence," Draco said, as if it were obvious. He pursed his lips like an overbearing mother (just the way his own would, no doubt). "Please, tell me what you have learned in class today, love."

Potter cracked a smile and snorted silently.

_Finite Incantatum to stop spells. Although, I'm rather certain that the only thing I stopped properly was my own heart._

Draco raised his brows. "Really? That's all you learned? Come on, if you're going to take extra classes, you might as well get something more out of it."

Potter mirrored Draco's expression.

_Like you could teach me any better? _he challenged, almost playfully.

Draco sniffed. "Of course I could," he boasted. "Watch this."

Immediately he pulled his wand out and raised it, pointing it at a nearby easel. "Reducto!" he shouted confidently, and the easel exploded into millions of tiny shards. Satisfied with his work, he turned to Potter with a triumphant smirk. "See?"

Potter looked visibly impressed.

_Can I try?_

Draco gestured to another easel, and Potter pulled out his wand, but he held it in his hands as if unsure or uncomfortable with it. After a few seconds of deliberating the Gryffindor squeezed his eyes shut, as if concentrating really hard, and pointed at the easel. All of the sudden, a small burn hole appeared in the middle of the easel, but that was it. Potter opened his eyes, clearly disappointed.

Draco waved his hand away, discouraged that Potter's mood had dampened again because of him. "Don't worry, it's better than most of the students in our year could accomplish. Myself included," he admitted.

As it was, the Sixth years had just begun learning nonverbal spells in Defence. Of course, Potter had the clear disadvantage of not having the previous five years of knowledge and experience, but typically, he was just the same as the rest of them. Superior, even. He did defeat the most powerful dark wizard of all time once, for Merlin's sake.

Still, Potter hung his head.

_I have to be better than this, _he confessed.

Draco frowned. "You don't have to better than that," he argued abruptly. "In fact, you don't have to be anything you aren't comfortable with."

He almost cringed at his own words. Gods, he was such a farce! Draco was probably the worst person to consult on matters of self-comfort. All of his life, he had been forced to do this, and do that, never questioning it, only perfecting it. Draco had never wanted to learn to cook five-star meals or memorise Latin roots, but he had done so to please his mother and father, who had wished for him to be the very best. Now he was preaching to Potter the perks of amateurity. Right. If only he could follow his own advice, maybe then he wouldn't feel so bad about it.

Potter looked somewhat relieved, though.

_You have no idea, _he signed, with some reluctance.

Draco stared at him; once again it was as if there was something missing. Potter was just a vault of mysteries, honestly. Draco suddenly found himself wondering what it would be like to be Potter, if only for a moment. Would he be angry? Miserable? Accepting? Potter was so naïve, yet, so mature at the same time, having to deal what he'd dealt with all of his life. How was it possible that one person could be so many things at once? Draco felt a light tap on his shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts, and he turned to Potter with interest.

_Tell me about your childhood, _Potter encouraged.

Draco furrowed his brows. "Why do you want to know about that?" he asked.

_Just curious. _

Well, it couldn't hurt. Draco propped his knees up on the legs of his stool and tapped his chin. "I can't complain, honestly. I was a privileged child, got mostly anything I wanted. Even when I began school, there was little that I couldn't achieve... I was raised to be the best, you know. I've always had the most skilled men and women to instruct and train me for almost every practical talent my father could think of. I suppose I should be well grateful for that."

_ Aren't you?_

Draco felt that lump growing in his throat, the one that always seemed to form nowadays upon talking about his family and expectations. It was a familiar feeling by now. "Yes," he said slowly, shaking his head. "Some times are a bit more difficult to swallow than others, but generally, yes, I am extremely appreciative."

Potter seemed to study him thoroughly. It was almost as if he were scrutinising Draco.

_Your father must be a very gracious man._

Draco's insides twisted at that. He wouldn't have called his father 'gracious'. On the contrary, nobody knew just how conniving Lucius could be as well as Draco knew it; the man had manipulated his way through society for as long as Draco could remember. It was Lucius's job as a Malfoy, and he was damned good at it. "He has his moments," Draco managed to choke.

Potter paused again before continuing.

_Do you love him?_

"Why are you asking all of these questions?" Draco blurted out, unable to hide the flush of his face. For some reason, the question caught him off guard. "It's rather unusual. You've never asked me anything like that before."

_Like I said, I was just curious._

Draco went back to his easel, now properly flustered, and began painting with a slightly shaky hand. What was Potter playing at? Did he feel as though he needed compensation before he revealed such similar things to Draco? If so, it was working. Draco hated discussing his family, even around his closest friends, because nobody truly understood how it felt to be a Malfoy. Nobody understood how it felt to be constantly lectured, taught that anything less than perfect was as insignificant as the scum on the bottom of his shoe. And just like that, Draco himself was insignificant, because no matter what he did, he would never please his father. The lump returned, but Draco refused to cry about it. He had stopped that long ago.

Now Potter seemed to sense Draco's discomfort, because he had inched closer and laced his arm through Draco's.

_I love Remus, you know. I don't care what anybody says, he's a father to me. He took me in when nobody else wanted me._

Draco refused to look at Potter, still embarrassed. "You're lucky to have him, then," he murmured. He could feel Potter's intense gaze on the side of his face, but he didn't move. And after a few moments, Potter rested his head on Draco's shoulder—tentatively, but firm.

_Sorry, _he signed, turning his face towards Draco's jumper in a manner that reminded Draco of a small, fuzzy kitten.

Draco drew in a breath slowly, and then finally turned to gaze at the top of Potter's messy head.

"It's okay."

**~x~**

**~x~**

"I've just gotten a letter from Mum, and she says—Oi, Harry, are you listening?"

Harry turned to face Ron, who was looking at him with an eager, expectant expression. Harry sighed. His friend always tended to look like that after a particularly good dinner, and tonight had been Ron's favourite, so there was no denying the glow or the perky behaviour that followed. At times like these, Harry typically zoned his friend out at least for the first hour, because Ron rarely had anything of importance to say after such a meal. And since they were currently heading out of the Hall to meet Hermione in the library, now would be considered that First Hour. Despite this, Harry propped up his notebook, already in hand, and began to write, although it was difficult to do while walking.

_Yes, I'm listening; you're talking about your mum. Go on._

Ron gave him a sceptical look, his post-dinner exuberance fading quicker than usual. "What're you looking at anyways?" he asked. Harry silently raised his hands to object, but Ron was already glancing around the area. And upon discovering Harry's distraction, he narrowed his blue eyes. "Really? Come on mate, it's Malfoy, not Christmas, for crying out loud."

Harry blushed and looked at his feet. He wasn't trying to be obvious, but it was rather difficult when Draco was standing only a few yards away, appearing to be conversing with his Slytherin friends. Draco had been particularly vulnerable last night and Harry had not forgotten; it was a surprising thing. And even though Hermione had warned him about Draco's shaky loyalties, Harry couldn't help but think that there was more to it. But of course, until he could get Draco alone again, he wasn't about to draw attention to himself.

Ron was peering at Draco now. "Well, if you've gotta say something to him, why not just say it—" he cupped his hands around his mouth and raised his voice. "Hey Malfoy, Harry wants—_ow_!"

Harry had grabbed Ron's arm and yanked it downwards, flushing madly. Then he averted his eyes and began to pull Ron down the corridor with unusual agility in order to get away before Draco or his friends could react.

"What the hell? I thought you wanted to talk to Malfoy," Ron bellowed, and Harry wanted to smack him. Ron was a great friend, really, but he had to be the loudest and most unsubtle person Harry had ever met. It was an extreme disadvantage at humiliating times like these. Harry slowed down after they were a proper distance away and picked up his notebook again. Ron huffed and trailed behind him, breathing heavily.

_I really didn't have anything to say to him, _Harry wrote.

Ron frowned. "Then why were you staring?"

Harry bit his lip.

_I was just looking. Is that a crime?_

Ron gazed at him for a moment, and then shook his head. "If you're such good friends with him, why won't he talk to you in public?" he demanded hotly.

_His friends don't like me._

Ron snorted. "And your friends don't like _him_," he argued. "That certainly hasn't stopped anybody."

Harry wanted to protest, but Ron was speaking the truth. Draco never acknowledged him outside of the art classroom or when they were completely alone. Harry had wondered about it before, but he couldn't particularly be bothered by it. It was just the way things were, Harry was used to it by now. Sure, Draco might be a bit ashamed of him, but it didn't hurt. Much.

_Just drop it, okay?_

"Whatever," Ron remarked, rolling his eyes. They continued to walk down the corridor in silence for a few moments before Ron piped up again. "Anyways, like I was saying, Mum wrote back. She said that it's all right for you to come stay with us for the hols, isn't that brilliant? My entire family is dying to meet you!"

Harry smiled for a moment, and then furrowed his brow.

_Are you sure? I don't want to intrude, it's just that Remus isn't going to be back for the hols and I didn't particularly want to stay here._

Ron made a tsk-ing noise. "Please, Mum is absolutely overjoyed. We haven't had anyone else visit for the hols except for Hermione, and Mum always cooks too much anyway. Besides, we couldn't possibly leave you here alone; practically nobody stays at Hogwarts over winter break. It just isn't right."

Harry smiled; he really did appreciate it. Like he'd told Ron, Remus wasn't going to be around for the holidays, and as much as that saddened Harry, he knew that it was for a good cause. Remus was fighting for the Order, and as far as Harry knew, they were his best chance. It would be his first Christmas without the older man, but Harry didn't doubt that Christmas with the Weasleys would be just as memorable.

Ron cleared his throat. "Speaking of winter, have you given any thought to who you're going to ask to the Winter Ball?"

Harry wrinkled his nose. He'd never been informed of such a thing.

_What's that? _he wrote.

Ron waved a hand. "Oh, it's just a formal dance we have every year for Fourth years and up. It's rather standard, actually. It's a right pain in the arse though, girls expecting you to ask them and such. I mean, they could step up and do some of the work once in a while, if you ask me."

Harry sighed. This seemed like a social event way out of his league, and he didn't really want to go. But if Ron was advocating it, it must be worth something. He might as well give it a shot.

_You're going?_

"Hell yeah," Ron remarked, a grin blooming on his face. "Everybody goes. And I mean, the food they serve there is _spectacular_."

Harry chuckled. Well, he supposed that he would have to go now, if Ron was. For some reason, his thoughts strayed to Draco again and he wondered if the Slytherin would attend the Ball. Of course, Ron had said everybody, but sometimes Ron's scope was rather limited when it came to that term. For example, 'everybody' often meant 'the Gryffindors'.

_Slytherins too?_

"Unfortunately," Ron said, pretending to vomit for a moment before grinning again. "They're pretty wild though. Well, you know. Anyways, you're avoiding the original question. Who do you want to ask?"

Harry shrugged.

_Will you go with me? _he wrote.

Ron snorted and scoffed, until he looked at Harry's face and realised that he wasn't kidding. Then his face immediately became the shade of an overripe tomato. "Oh! Uh, Harry, I don't mean to be off-putting, but you typically ask somebody attractive."

Harry frowned. Well, Ron obviously had some self-esteem issues.

_You're plenty attractive, Ron, don't put yourself down like that._

That only seemed to cause his friend to blush even more. "That's not what I meant," Ron spluttered. "I _meant_, you should ask somebody you're interested in romantically. As in, you might want to date them."

Harry blushed now, too. Oh. Well, he could have said that before!

_Who are __**you **__asking then?_

"Well, Hermione, probably. She got on my case about it a couple of years ago, anyways."

Harry raised his eyebrows.

_So you're interested in her romantically?_

"No, I just—" Ron looked away, clearly still embarrassed. "We're not talking about me, we're talking about you!"

Harry chuckled; he found it amusing that the subject of Hermione in a romantic sense made Ron act this way. Even Harry, blind to almost everything, could see that his two friends harboured secret feelings for each other. It wasn't Arithmancy. And when they did finally realise that they felt the same way about each other, Harry couldn't wait to be the first one to give them his best wishes. Although, if he were to be honest with himself, he might feel a bit disappointed in his own loneliness.

_I don't know. I'm not interested in anyone like that._

"Really?" Ron asked, finally calming down enough to look at Harry with disbelief. "Not one girl sticks out to you?"

Harry paused, and then shook his head. Nobody stuck out to him, except for his Gryffindor friends and maybe Draco. But he really doubted that any of them—especially Draco—would want to go to a dance with him.

"Well, if you change your mind, I know for a fact that half of the Gryffindor girls are mad for you," Ron remarked.

_Really? I've never noticed that._

"Well, they are. Ginny says that it's your eyes. Apparently, they're beautiful," Ron fake-shuddered, and then clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder with a chuckle. "I mean, you could ask my sister if you want. But no funny business, you hear?" Harry rolled his eyes, embarrassed himself now, and Ron laughed again. "Come on, we better not be late. Hermione will skin us alive if we don't get this essay done by Monday."

Harry shrugged and trailed after his friend, who had begun to speed up. Personally, he didn't see all the fuss over winter hols, but then again, he'd never really had much of an experience. Maybe this year, he would.

**~x~**

**~x~**

Draco rubbed his forehead and groaned. Why had he agreed to help Blaise with his Potions project? Honestly, he was tired, and all he wanted was to be alone in his dorm for a while... but no, instead he was wasting away his Saturday night in the library. Anyways, Blaise seemed to be doing just fine with his project; he mostly just wanted to boss Draco around for a few hours.

"Can you hand me that text, love? Thanks," Blaise chirped, as Draco pushed the book at him with a certain annoyance.

"Why am I even here?" Draco complained. "You don't need me."

Blaise smirked. "Moral support," he declared. "Besides, you have nothing better to do than sit here with me. Admit it."

Actually, Draco did. He _could_ be catching a few hours of sleep before meeting up with Potter. In fact, anything that involved meeting Potter would have been better than this. Not that he'd tell that to Blaise, though.

"Whatever," he muttered, flipping through a random text aimlessly. To be honest, he was a bit apprehensive about facing Potter again today after his mini breakdown the night before. Honestly, of all the things! He hadn't been able to recuperate fast enough. Although, Draco had to admit that there was something about Potter's comforting touch that had calmed him. Something that assured him that Potter would never tell anyone about what happened in that room—not that night, or any other nights. It was their little secret, after all.

"So," Blaise began, scribbling something down on his parchment before looking up at Draco. Draco raised his head to look at him.

"What?"

"Are you going to ask Astoria or what?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Draco retorted.

Blaise scoffed and put down his quill. "You know perfectly well. The Ball is a mere three weeks away, you can't say that you haven't thought about it."

Draco rolled his eyes. Honestly, he hadn't. With all his Potter problems, he hardly had enough time to think about anything else at all. Brush teeth, Potter, gel hair, Potter, bite toast, chew toast, swallow toast, repeat, Potter, Potter, Potter. It was the same everyday.

"She's expecting you to ask her," Blaise continued, as if Draco had given a proper answer.

"Well, _I'm_ not expecting to do so," Draco said easily.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "You're going, right?"

"Sure," Draco agreed. "But I don't want to go with her."

Blaise made a noise of understanding. "Well, you know you're going to have to face it sometime, Draco. You're probably going to marry that girl."

"Until then, I'd rather keep my distance," Draco remarked sourly.

Blaise shrugged, and then turned back to his work. Draco sighed. Of course, he was going to go to the Ball… though Draco would rather go with Pansy again than reach out to Astoria—like he said, he would bait his time while he could.

"Well, I'm going to ask Daphne then," Blaise commented, still writing. "She's pretty easy, you know."

"I know," said Draco wearily, and he rested his head in his arms again.

Idly, he wondered who Potter would ask, if he were to attend the Ball. Potter didn't know many people, so it was hard to say… Perhaps Granger? No, the Weasel seemed to have bets on her. Maybe Weasley's sister though… Draco shook his head, annoyed with himself for thinking about it. Potter, Potter, Potter. In fact, Potter was sitting a few tables away, not that Draco had been steadily watching him or anything. At the moment, Granger was scolding Potter and the Weasel over who-knows-what. Draco smiled involuntarily. It was so damned typical.

"What's so funny?" Blaise asked, following his gaze. Draco snapped out of it and tried to look somewhere else, but his friend had caught him already. Blaise's brown eyes narrowed a little. "Oh, lovely. Potter and his minions," he announced. Draco folded his hands on the table and looked at them with fake deep interest. Gods, why did Blaise have to be so loud? Draco could just feel the trio's eyes on them now. Why. "Look at how they stare," Blaise muttered gleefully. "I'll bet you five Galleons I can make Weasley storm over here."

Draco groaned; there was nobody else in the library except for the five of them (even Pince had taken a brief break), so he didn't have to worry about causing a scene—still, Blaise could always find a way to cause a scene without really doing anything at all. He braced himself for the impact.

"Hey, Weasley!" Blaise whisper-shouted. "Why do you frown like that when you read? Here, I'll help you—it's spelled b-o-o-k. Don't hurt yourself though!" Weasley had obviously responded with a glare of some sorts, because Blaise giggled and leaned in towards Draco. "Look at his face, gods, it's priceless. Come on, I know you want to!"

Draco rolled his eyes and shielded his eyes by rubbing his forehead again, keeping his head low. Maybe if he didn't get involved…

"You ought keep your cronies on a tighter leash from now on, Malfoy," Weasley spat now, and Blaise stopped mid-laugh.

"How about you say that to _me_, Weasel-brain?" Blaise sneered, and Draco could almost visualise his perfect white teeth bared like an animal's.

"How about you mind your own business?" Weasley countered.

Blaise snorted. "How about no fucking way?"

There was a scuffle of chairs, and then footsteps. Draco sighed heavily, and looked up. Sure enough, Weasley was standing there, livid, and Potter was behind him as if attempting to hold him back. Granger was still sitting at their table, disapproval written all over her face.

"Five Galleons," Blaise muttered out of the side of his mouth, and Draco glanced at him sharply.

"I agreed to no such thing," he murmured back. Then he turned to Weasley and Potter with an air of fake composure. "Excuse my friend for his momentary lapse of judgement. Let us go back to our respective tables and we can pretend nothing ever happened."

Weasley scoffed. "Oh Malfoy, if you wanted Harry's attention, why didn't you just say so?" he jeered.

Draco tried to keep his mouth from dropping open. How dare Weasley speak to him like that? And in front of Blaise and Granger and Potter! Potter… Draco glanced at him, and the boy was watching him curiously, almost with amusement, it seemed. Draco couldn't help but flush now. Gods, Weasley would pay. "I don't know what you are referring to," he hissed, eyes narrowing dangerously. "And if you know what's good for you, I suggest that you leave this table now."

"Or what?" Weasley was almost smirking at him.

Granger sighed from across the room. "Get over here, Ron!" she demanded. For once, Draco agreed with her.

"Hold on," Ron shouted back. He turned around with a glare on his face now, his hand only inches away from his wand pocket. "Have you told your friends, Malfoy? Or are you too scared?"

Draco gaped, unsure of what to say, and Blaise spoke up to defend him. "Draco tells me everything," he remarked smoothly, his voice almost sickly pleasant. "And please, take your hand away from the wand before I personally shove it up your ginger arse, Weasley."

"What will you do if I don't?" Weasley argued.

Blaise shrugged. "Then I'll be forced to perform an unfortunate curse. Some say illegal, I say progressive."

Draco pursed his lips, now they were going too far. Blaise couldn't be threatening Unforgivables at all, and especially not to one of Potter's close friends. They couldn't afford to get in trouble like that. Draco glanced over to warn his friend, but instead noticed that Potter had inched closer to him now, obviously a nervous habit. They were only about an arm's length apart. Draco tried to ignore the fact that his palms were sweating.

Weasley pouted now. "You can't do that to me," he remarked proudly. "I'm much quicker than you are, I'll deflect it back before you can even blink."

Blaise smirked evilly. "Who said I was talking about you?" he purred, now pulling out his wand and pointing it at Potter. "I was actually referring to Potter here. If I remember correctly, poor, defenceless Potter can't take a hit."

Without thinking Draco stood up, the chair screeching back and echoing throughout the room, and blocked Potter with his own body. At wandpoint, Potter's eyes had widened considerably, and he'd leaned into Draco's touch, trembling. Everyone turned and looked at them in shock and amazement.

Blaise frowned now, his resolve shaken for the first time since they'd begun the argument. "What the fuck are you doing, Draco?" he hissed.

"I—You can't perform an Unforgivable on him," Draco whispered fiercely, trying to ignore Potter's hand, which had clasped onto Draco's limp one hanging by his side. His face was burning, but he paid no mind.

"I wasn't going to actually do it, do you think I'm daft?" Blaise snapped. He was clearly annoyed that he had to reveal this in front of the watching Gryffindors.

"But there's no reason to threaten him, he's done nothing wrong," Draco retorted angrily, humiliated that they had to have this conversation now. He wrenched himself from Potter's grip and stood his ground before Blaise. "We can't afford to get into trouble, Blaise, you know exactly what will happen if anybody finds out you even spoke of it!"

"Who gives a fuck about that?" Blaise yelled, his eyes raking over both Draco and Potter once more with disbelief. "You want to explain _this _to me? Since when do you defend Gryffindors? I thought we told each other everything!"

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment, Pansy came running into the room, out of breath. "Draco, I was going to wait until you got back to the common room to give you this, but I noticed—" she paused upon seeing tense faces and frowned. "What's going on?"

Draco ignored her question and grabbed his bag from the table before stalking over to her to take the piece of parchment from her hand. Quickly, he scanned the front—it had the official Malfoy stamp on it. Oh, what did his mother want now? Irritated now more than ever, he ripped open the seal and smoothed out the letter—only to widen his eyes in surprise.

"Draco?" Blaise asked uneasily.

"Malfoy?" Weasley echoed.

Potter just stared at him.

Draco took a deep breath and whirled on his heel, leaving them all in the library as he stormed out. After reaching the end of the corridor and the end of his patience, Draco scanned the letter again; worry creeping over him like darkness in the fading dusk.

It was his Father.

**Author's Note: I'm not completely satisfied with this, but it remains as I don't want to rewrite it. So I realize that Hogwarts doesn't typically have a winter ball, but for some reason I love writing about school dances. Though ironically, I hate going to them? Anyways, so that's that. Draco and Harry's relationship slowly progresses, as usual. I love writing Blaise because he's snarky as hell in my mind. He's probably my favorite of Draco's friends, to be honest. **

**Also, I happened to be listening to the radio as I wrote this, and found that _'Slow Dancing In A Burning Room' by John Mayer_ seems to fit Drarry in this fic pretty well, so I suggest that you give it a listen (and perhaps listen to it during the more intimate/sad Drarry moments that are to come in the future of this fic). Thank you for reading, and suggestions are always welcome! x**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Hi guys! Sorry it's been a few weeks, but I'm hoping to get this fic moving quicker now because I feel like it needs some extra oomph! or something. So I already have a basic idea of how this fic is going to go, but if anybody has any ideas or suggestions for minor details, that would be lovely and much appreciated!**

Chapter 7

"Expelliarmus!"

Harry's wand whipped straight out of his hand and fell on the floor with a loud clatter. Bugger! He gritted his teeth and bent over to pick it up for what seemed like the millionth time that hour. He was exhausted, sweaty, and all he wanted was to sit down in the common room and sketch quietly by the fireplace. Instead, he was here, in the Defence classroom, attempting to block the various spells thrown at him. Each attempt had been a fail.

_It's still not working, _he wrote on the chalkboard, which was full of halfhearted chalk marks and hastily erased expletives from the past hour.

"You just need practise," Remus assured, turning around to give Harry a warm, encouraging smile. "The Shield Charm is a fairly challenging spell to produce, and it is even more difficult on the nonverbal scale. But with some hard work..."

Harry turned away and scowled. Sure, he loved that Remus was here—Harry hadn't seen his guardian for months now—but he'd rather have met with him on happier terms... Like sitting down for a cup of tea, perhaps. But alas, they had been dueling (or rather, Remus had been dueling, Harry had been failing) for over an hour now without even a moment to spare for any such thing. Luckily, Remus seemed to recognise the expression on Harry's face and decided take pity on him.

"Why don't we rest a bit, hm? Let's sit," he suggested, tucking his wand away in his robes. Harry gave him a weak smile in gratitude, and Remus took Harry by the shoulder to guide him to the desks. They each took one opposite to one another. "Tell me about school. Are you doing well? Are the children treating you all right?" Remus clucked, cupping his chin in the palm of his hand and leaning forward with an expression of genuine concern. Somehow, it reminded Harry of Hermione.

Harry slipped his bookbag from his shoulder and took out the notebook and a quill.

_It's great, honestly. Classes are… well, I don't always __go __to them, but I'm sure they're great too. _

"Harry," Remus said sternly. "Going to class is important. In my day, attendance was everything," he paused, and then chuckled. "But your father! Your father was a rascal. Professors would accuse him of being late and he'd swear that he had been 'right under their noses' the entire time... and at the end of class, there'd be a stinkbomb in their desks! He'd get extra detentions for that, but oh, how it made us laugh."

Harry smiled wistfully; he loved hearing stories about Remus and his father and their friends and how much mischief they'd get themselves into. It gave him a piece of his father's life, somehow made the man more real. Besides, Harry loved to pretend as though he were one of them, traipsing around Hogwarts causing havoc and trouble. Of course, it was only a silly dream, but it was still nice.

"But don't let that be an example, you should always go to class," Remus added quickly, mistaking Harry's wishful smile for scheming.

_Of course, _Harry promised. _I'll go from now on._

"Good." Remus folded his hands across the desk, obviously satisfied with his successful parental guidance for the day. "Anyways. Friends! Tell me about your friends. As I remember, Gryffindors are particularly open to newcomers."

_Well, there's Hermione and Ron, I'd reckon they're my best friends._

Remus smiled. "Ron Weasley, is it? I know his father. Nice lad. Nice family. You're staying with them over the hols, aren't you?"

Harry nodded. _Yes. And I__'ve switched to the dorms too, instead of the private room. I live with Seamus, Dean, and Neville now._

"Ah, lovely. Neville Longbottom," Remus said out loud, a strangely gentle look on his face. "Nice boy as well."

Harry frowned for a moment, but recovered quickly. As much as he wanted to give Remus the full experience of his time at his new school, he wasn't too keen on his guardian finding out that Harry wasn't so popular outside of Gryffindor... because, of course, he didn't want Remus to worry about him with all that the man already had going on. Besides, Harry wanted to show Remus that he could take care of himself. The cool stares, the hushed whispers, the hurtful jabs_—_well, Remus didn't need to know. At the very least, Harry wouldn't mention it if he didn't have to.

_There are plenty of others as well. Ginny, Ron's sister, she's really cool too. And Parvati, Padma, Lavender, Draco—_

Remus stopped him mid quillstroke. "Draco? Draco _Malfoy_?" he asked, his gaze growing suspicious.

Harry frowned.

_Maybe?_

Remus gave him a dry look. "Draco Malfoy is a Slytherin. How'd you get involved with him?" Harry shrugged, and Remus grew even more frenzied. "You didn't do anything bad, did you? Is he forcing you to do anything? Oh dear Merlin, did you blow something up?"

Harry gave his guardian an assuring pat on the shoulder.

_I haven't done anything wrong, and neither has he. I mean, I did blow up a cauldron in Potions once, but I was partnered with Seamus Finnigan..._

"Harry, this is no matter for jokes," Remus warned. "Draco Malfoy's father is a very dangerous man."

Harry sighed.

_I've heard._

Remus frowned. "And that doesn't deter you in any way?"

_Draco was my friend before I found out about his family, and he still is my friend. Plus, he hasn't tried to kill me or anything, so I'm fairly sure he's all right._

Remus let out a huge sigh and scooted his desk closer to Harry. Then he took one of Harry's hands and squeezed it.

"Harry, it might not seem real because you're here, but there are bad people out there who don't want to see you alive and well. War is upon us, it's knocking at our doors, and we can't ignore it." Remus gave Harry a meaningful look. "I want to protect you, Harry, but I also want you to be able to protect yourself. And though I'm only supposed to be here to give you physical guidance, I hope that you will kindly take this piece of advice: Be careful whom you decide to let in. Because sometimes even the most powerful barrier can't shelter you from heartbreak."

Remus's eyes shone bright with sentiment, and Harry could tell he was speaking from experience. He nodded, and launched himself forward to fall into Remus's arms for a hug. It seemed that Harry needed to defend Draco's honour more and more these days, needed to validate their friendship somehow—and no doubt, it made him somewhat nervous, but he did truly believe that Draco wasn't out to get him. And after what had happened with Blaise Zabini in the library—Harry was surer than ever.

Remus let go of Harry after a few moments, smiling benignly. "Shall we have another go?" he asked, gathering himself up and reaching for his wand in preparation for attack.

Harry sighed heavily and stood up, reaching for his wand as well. If he really had to endure this with Remus, he might as well embrace it while he could. Besides, the man had a point. War was coming, and Harry had to be ready for it.

**~x~**

**~x~**

"Draco."

Draco kept his novel up to his face in blatant disregard.

"Draco, look at me."

He refused to move. What an interesting novel. What interesting characters. What an interesting plot. Would Blaise please get the fuck away.

"I don't understand why _you_ are ignoring _me_," Blaise remarked, finally grabbing the book from Draco's hands and tossing it aside on the bed. Draco began to protest, but the other boy cut him off. "I should be ignoring the fuck out of you for what you've done to me. Public humiliation in front of the Gryffindors! And taking Potter's side over mine, for another. And not telling me about _a lot_ of things—damn, I'm getting angry again just thinking about it!"

"It was none of your business," Draco snapped.

Blaise huffed and sat down on Draco's bed. "It was too," he pouted. "I'm supposed to be your friend. We're supposed to share."

"And we're also supposed to be Slytherins," Draco pointed out. "We don't share if we don't want to."

Blaise gazed at him for a moment. "Bollocks. You're just afraid that we'd harp and bitch at you… though I suppose that decision _was _rather weighted." He paused. "Still doesn't give you the right not to man up and tell me anyways. I mean, it's _me_. I'm your best friend, for Merlin's sake."

Draco sighed. He hadn't wanted it to come to this—he knew just how much his friends didn't like Potter, and yes, Draco was still apprehensive about confronting his own friends. Of course, Blaise wasn't the absolute worst person who could've found out—that role would have probably gone to Draco's father—but it was still hard for Draco to admit that he wasn't always the cool, controlled Slytherin he aspired to be. In fact, he rarely was.

"We bonded over art. That's it. That's all you need to know," Draco said sourly, turning away from Blaise and rolling over on his stomach.

Blaise snorted. "I didn't know prissy Potter liked _art._" He caught the look on Draco's face and quickly amended his words. "...not that there's anything wrong with liking art. Of course, you've probably got to be half-insane or something. All the great artists are, you included."

Draco shot him a dirty look for the underhanded compliment. "It's just not a big deal."

"If it's not a big deal, why didn't you tell me?"

Draco pursed his lips. "You would've jumped to conclusions," he declared. "You wouldn't have even let me explain myself."

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Really? I'm letting you explain now, aren't I? So explain."

Draco sighed. It wasn't as if he didn't want to come clean—Blaise was right. Despite his fear, Draco did wish for his friends to know about a lot of things—but it was difficult talking about it… about Potter. It was even strange for Draco to catch himself thinking about Potter; the way Potter painted, and laughed, and grinned, and frowned... it was all so oddly compelling. Blaise wouldn't think the same, though. The other boy didn't appreciate art, after all.

"Potter paints and draws really well," Draco said carefully. "He's got a real knack for it, although he's rather shy about his work. I mean, it took me ages to get him to discuss it freely and still, I don't know, I've grown fond of him… I mean, he's got a right sense of humour and good company and all that. He just… gets it." Draco frowned. "My art, I mean. He understands."

Blaise was quiet for a long time, just peering at Draco's face. He seemed to be studying it, perhaps for a hint of a lie, or a hint of a truth, or a hint of something—Draco couldn't tell. Finally, the boy shrugged. "And here I thought you were just fucking him or something," Blaise remarked slyly, a smirk on his lips as he hopped off the bed, "Guess I was wrong then. And don't worry, I won't tell the others. See ya."

Before Draco could blush madly and/or throw something, Blaise was out of the dorm, cackling into the hallway. Draco scowled. The self-important git and his mad insinuations! Of course, Blaise had taken it all rather well, although Draco had to wonder whether or not Blaise had _actually_ believed that he and Potter were fooling around at some point. It wasn't as if Draco had ever made a point to say that he _wasn't_ into blokes, or Gryffindors, for that matter, but he hadn't said that he was, either. Draco shrugged to himself. He was just glad that Blaise hadn't mentioned the note from Draco's father.

Draco sighed and tried not to dwell on it. Lucius had indeed sent a letter and Draco had been initially shocked by it, since his father never sent him anything unless it was urgent news. The curious thing was, the message didn't seem urgent this time, and Draco had grown wary of that. In a painfully rigid and formal hundred-worded letter, Lucius had only informed Draco that he wished to have a meeting with him as soon as he arrived for the hols. Draco didn't understand why this news had required a personalised letter, but alas, he hardly understood anything his father did nowadays.

He sighed. It was almost 11pm, and he didn't want to be late tonight: he and Potter had just started painting with watercolours, one of Draco's favourite methods. It tended to give his paintings a sense of luminous purity that Draco loved so dearly. He grabbed his cloak and bag off the night table and hopped off the bed, shuffling into his loafers and creeping out the door and through the common room. Most of his peers didn't bother to ask where he was off to anymore, and Draco was grateful for it. Not that he ever gave them a straight answer, anyways.

Draco left the dungeons and scurried through the dark corridors. He liked the feeling of emptiness the corridors gave him at night. To just stand there, all alone—there was a sense of power to it, a power that nobody else had because nobody else was there to claim it. And Draco reveled in that power, because any power he could get, he reveled in—yet, he could never get over the fact that it was an empty corridor, and he was alone. But wasn't that how it was supposed to be? Otherwise, what was the thrill of it?

As he arrived, Draco pushed open the door to the art classroom and Potter was already there, setting up his easel. Upon Draco's entrance, the other boy turned around and smiled at him in greeting.

"Have you brought the paints?" Draco asked, dropping his bag near Potter's and walking up to his own easel.

Potter held up his palette and waved it around in confirmation. Draco grinned, selected a palette of his own, and then sat down on his stool and picked around his other tools as Potter did the same. As Draco began to paint, his thoughts wandered throughout the abstract corners of his brain, creating wonderful shapes and colours and swirls_—_oh, if only it were permanent! If only he wasn't stuck in a perpetual whirlwind of daily worries. He wished that he could just sit here and paint and paint and never stop... with Potter by his side, painting with him. After a while, Draco glanced over at Potter's canvas and frowned. It was blank.

"Why haven't you started yet?" he asked.

Potter shook his head. He had been staring at Draco's canvas for what seemed like a long time.

_I don't know how to paint with this, _he admitted.

Draco wrinkled his brow. "It's just like any of the others," he remarked slowly. "You just pick up your brush and dip it in and paint."

Potter rolled his eyes.

_I meant, I don't know what to paint with this. I'm not used to it. The colours are rather... soft. _

"Soft? Ah." Draco realised Potter's problem. The boy's paintings were brilliant, of course, but Draco would never have described them as 'soft'. 'Terrifying', maybe, 'heart-stopping', definitely, but never 'soft'. Potter just needed a better grip on his emotions. "It's a process," Draco explained. "You have to find your inner Zen."

Potter raised his eyebrows sceptically.

_My inner Zen?_

Draco could almost see the sarcasm in Potter's hand movements. He sighed. "Doubt me all you want, but I promise, it's a real thing. I took a class in the meditative properties of ancient Chinese teachings. You can look it up in the library."

Potter snorted silently.

Draco pretended not to notice. "Here, let me help you." He moved over to Potter and took his hand. Potter looked up in surprise, but he didn't protest. "Pick up your brush," Draco instructed gently, guiding Potter's hand to do so. Draco then shifted around the back of Potter's stool and grabbed Potter's other hand, making to hug the Gryffindor from behind. It wasn't completely uncomfortable. "Now, think," he said. "The first step is to visualise. What makes you laugh? What makes you smile? What makes you feel warm and wanted; free and alive?"

Since Draco had Potter's hands, he didn't expect the other boy to answer, but Potter did in the best way he knew how. The Gryffindor dipped his brush in a copper shade, and then pure white, and mixed them together. On his canvas, he painted a single, golden ball with tiny wings. All the while, Draco moved with him. He grinned.

"The Snitch," he remarked. "You like Quidditch... that's a good start. But let's think more abstract. Colour, for instance. Now, the whole point of this is to paint how you feel. And I know that there are certain rules about colours, but I want you to forget about them and make your own this time. Let's test it."

Draco took one hand off of Potter's to grab a fresh canvas off the next easel and place it in front of Potter. "What colour is Quidditch?" he asked.

Potter paused, and then dipped his brush again. On the canvas, he painted a long, gold stroke.

"Okay." Draco bit his lip and flinched as Potter's cheek brushed against his. This was closer than they'd ever been before, but Potter hadn't seemed to notice it. Draco, on the other hand, had noticed it rather keenly. Of course, he probably wouldn't have in the first place, except for the fact that Potter's shampoo smelled of fresh leaves and apples in an entirely distracting manner. Also, Potter's cheek was unusually soft for a bloke's. Was it supposed to be that soft? What kind of soap did he use? "Uh, now…" Draco cleared his throat. "What colour is Weasley?"

Potter wiped his brush and dipped it again. Red.

Draco snorted. Well, obviously. "Okay, Granger?" he asked.

Red again.

"Finnigan? Thomas?"

Red.

Draco took a shot at it. "Er... Gryffindor?"

Red.

"That's what I thought." Draco wrinkled his brows. "How about Professor Snape?"

Potter grimaced and painted black. Draco laughed a little.

"Hogwarts?"

Potter painted purple.

"What about wintertime?"

Potter used white; the colour disappeared into the canvas as if it had never been there. Draco frowned. Potter was rather practical about his choices, and it was evident that the boy wasn't quite sure what else to do. In all honesty, Draco wanted Potter to let loose and go with his gut (like a good Gryffindor), but he didn't know how to make him do so. Draco chewed on his lip thoughtfully for a moment. Wait, but of course! Potter seemed to truly understand emotion when it was negative. No matter how sad or worrisome that might be, it was something to start on.

"What colour is anger?" Draco asked, trying it out. Potter tilted his head in surprise, but he complied quicker this time, painting a thin streak of a dark burgundy. Immediately, Draco could feel the change in emotional response emanating from Potter's brushstrokes.

"Sorrow," Draco instructed again.

Potter painted a solid blue streak.

"Now... loneliness," Draco said, quieter.

Potter paused for a moment, his brush hovering over his palette like a ghost. Then, very slowly, he painted a bright, vivid green. The colour of the Killing curse… the colour of his own eyes.

Draco drew in a breath; he was close to blurting out yet another apology for nothing. Honestly, it wasn't as if it had been wrong to prod, Draco had wanted the emotional response after all, and besides, art was all emotion and remembrance, no matter good or bad... Potter was just one of those artists that had more bad memories than good. But it was still sad, no doubt, and Draco felt that niggling tendency to apologise grow stronger. Potter had to look in the mirror everyday and see the precise colour of the feeling that caused his heart to feel heavy and his stomach to drop. It was so beautiful, and yet... Terrible, at the same time.

Draco shook his head, feeling the need to lighten the mood. "What colour am_ I_?" he asked.

Potter didn't move his brush immediately, but instead turned his head to look straight at Draco. And from this proximity, he was _literally_ looking straight at Draco... their noses were a mere finger's length away from brushing. In the span of a split second, Potter narrowed his eyes a little and his mouth quirked up into a small smile. Then he turned away just as abruptly as he'd turned to, and painted a long stroke of silver grey on the canvas as a final touch. It was so bright that it almost sparkled.

Draco tried not to flush, but for some reason, it was difficult. He immediately let go of Potter's hands and stepped back from him. "Great, brilliant," he praised absently, glancing away as he sat back on his stool. "Now go from there. Just remember to use those colours wisely."

Potter grinned and nodded, although he'd turned to Draco instead of his easel.

_Can we take a break? I'm hungry._

Draco was secretly glad for the distraction. He scoffed. "Hungry? We've only been in here for a half hour."

_I skipped dinner. Wasn't feeling it._

Draco rolled his eyes. "Have you brought food?"

_No._

"Oh, so you're expecting me to provide something?"

Potter gave him a hopeful smile. Draco pretended to sigh with exasperation.

"Fine, Mr. Wasn't Feeling It. You're in luck. I always keep a supply of sweets in my bag… sugar quills are an absolute necessity in History of Magic. Don't ask why." Potter laughed silently and Draco got up to retrieve his bag, but then paused first. "Well, we can't fully enjoy this fine meal sitting here, can we? Come on."

Draco hopped up from his stool and urged the other boy to do the same, first picking up his bag and then stalking to the middle of the classroom and the centre of the circle of easels. Draco tapped his chin, and then unhooked his own cloak and school robe and laid them on the floor like a picnic blanket. Potter did the same, all the while grinning happily.

Draco tossed his bag on the floor and sat down with an elegant plop. "Now I've got sugar quills, chocolate frogs, fizzing whizzbees—"

Potter looked amused. He sat down and contemplated the stash that Draco had laid out in front of him before picking up a frog and unwrapping it. He chuckled quietly as it jumped out and croaked.

Draco cleared his throat. He and Potter rarely conversed about anything other than art, unless an uncomfortable situation forced them to, of course. But it wasn't as if Draco didn't think about un-art related topics while with Potter. And he _did_ want to discuss normal things with Potter. It was just… difficult, for some reason. Honestly, Potter was a teenage boy, for Merlin's sake! Why wasn't he ever interested in talking about teenage boy things? Like girls, for instance. Or sex.

"So," Draco tried, watching Potter pick out another sweet. "The Winter Ball is coming up in a few days. Are you going?"

Draco half expected the Gryffindor to say no, but Potter paused mid-chew and nodded in confirmation. Draco raised his eyebrows.

"Really? Who'd you ask?"

Potter swallowed before responding, although it hardly seemed necessary seeing as he wasn't going to use his mouth to speak.

_Ginny Weasley._

"Weasley?" Draco scratched his head. He hardly ever noticed her. Perhaps it was because he often thought of her as a random, pesky fly stuck in the corner of the Gryffindor web, as she'd never given Draco trouble before and he had highly doubted that she was capable. But schmoozing up to Potter now was a smart move; maybe he ought to rethink his analysis of the girl. "Why, do you think she's fit?"

Potter frowned.

_Fit?_

Draco turned away to hide his smirk. Gods, Potter was so bloody_ innocent_. "I mean, do you fancy her?" he amended.

There was no answer for a while, and Draco turned back to look at Potter's face properly, confused. The boy had obtained a faint flush, and it was clear that he was reluctant to share so much with Draco. For some reason, the thought nipped at Draco's chest a bit. Why shouldn't Potter tell him things too? The boy probably discussed such topics with his Gryffindor friends all the time.

_It's too early to be making assumptions, _Potter concluded finally.

"Right," Draco muttered, focusing on the sweets on the floor rather than Potter now. "That's reasonable."

Potter took another bite of something before responding.

_Are you going?_

Draco nodded. "Yeah, with Pansy. She was going to go with some Ravenclaw bloke, but I, uh, _talked_ to him about it and now she's all mine."

Potter snorted.

_Which hex?_

Draco smirked. "Stinging hex, and I gave him Jelly-Legs for good measure. He ran away like a wobbly, wailing ostrich, you would've loved it."

Potter laughed generously, and Draco couldn't help but smile. Not too many Gryffindors would have approved of his tactics, but Potter had always been one of a kind. Besides, Potter didn't have to approve, he just had to accept—and to Draco's current knowledge, Potter was very accepting.

After finishing his last sweet, Potter lay back on the floor, his head falling where the hood of his cloak lay near Draco's arm. Strangely compelled, Draco did the same. They were quiet for a while before Potter nudged him.

_Do you think that everything happens for a reason? _Potter signed, out of the blue. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

Draco had to turn and face Potter to read his hand motions correctly. He shrugged, although his position made the movement all wonky. "Sometimes. But most of the time, I feel that the universe just wants to have a good laugh at me."

Potter bit his lip.

_I've heard that for every bad turn, there's a good thing waiting at the end of each. _

Draco wrinkled his nose. "Do you believe it?"

_Still waiting to._

Draco sighed and watched Potter close his eyes and curl up beside him. Draco wouldn't have called himself a pessimist, but he just couldn't think that way, and he didn't understand how Potter could either. Potter had had so many bad turns in his life, so many bad things happen to him—yet he still believed that there had to be something good waiting for him. Maybe it was Gryffindor nature, or maybe it was just Potter's, but this hope seemed like an awful big leap of faith. Maybe Draco didn't have faith. Maybe he wasn't raised to. But Merlin, it was a beautiful hope, a whole new world of possibilities. And Draco was glad that Potter saw it that way, even if he himself couldn't.

Before he even knew it, his eyes were drooping and he had curled up, just like Potter, who was now snoring softly beside him. And Draco didn't have the energy—or the heart—to wake him up.

**~x~**

**~x~**

"I look bloody stupid."

Harry peered over at Ron as the redhead stared at his own reflection, clearly mortified. Ron was currently dressed in an atrocious set of dress robes, sent to him special by his mother—and gods, it was such a sickly orange colour, with lace and frills and strange trims in places that Harry didn't believe Ron wanted anyone to look at. Still, he had to be supportive of his friend and at least try to make him feel better. Nobody else had. They'd just laughed.

_It doesn't look that bad, _Harry wrote sympathetically. Hermione had made him a miniature whiteboard for tonight's events; it was small enough to fit in his robes, but large enough to write freely. She had also picked out and ordered his dress robes for him, which he was entirely grateful for as well. Harry didn't have the first clue about robes, let alone of the formal kind, but they were simple black and white so he was certain that he wouldn't attract unwanted attention. Ron, on the other hand…

"I can't believe this," Ron moaned piteously. "I look like a troll!"

_A very handsome troll, _Harry tried.

Ron gave him a dry look. "Seamus laughed his arse off when he saw me. So did Ginny. Do you reckon Mum did this to torture me? Or did she really think this would be flattering?"

Harry grinned impishly.

_You shoulda gone with me. I really don't care what you look like._

"Oh, shut up, Harry," Ron complained, although there was a hint of a smile on his lips now. "Hermione will probably be laughing loudest of all."

_Hey, she's the one who has to dance with you, _Harry reminded him.

Ron nodded a bit, still looking himself over. "True," he mused. "At least I won't be the only one suffering."

Harry laughed and pushed at his friend's shoulder to leave. They were already ten minutes late to meet the girls down by the Great Hall, and Hermione would have a fit if they lingered any longer. Besides, Harry was getting a bit antsy himself. Ron took one more look in the mirror, gave a pitiful sigh, and traipsed out, beginning the process of enduring the gasps and snorts at his appearance with his head held high.

Harry trailed behind him out of Gryffindor, slightly nervous. Obviously he'd never been to a Winter Ball before, and he'd never had a date, either. It was... new. He thought absently about Ginny and her bright eyes and long hair. Of course, Harry hadn't quite believed Ron when the boy had said that half the girls in Gryffindor thought Harry was attractive, so it had still surprised him when Ginny had given him a crushing hug and an enthusiastic yes to match upon his asking her to the ball. Because, really, Ginny was so vibrant and bubbly, and Harry was so… Harry. If that made any sense.

Pushing his doubtful thoughts aside, Harry realised that they had finally arrived at the entrance to the Great Hall where crowds of students were buzzing around to meet with friends and dates. The doors were slightly open, as some brave couples had already ventured inside... From the sounds of it, the music was already going. Harry glanced around, spotting Hermione and waving at her enthusiastically, then dragging a hesitant Ron to meet up.

"Harry! You look adorable. I knew that those would compliment you nicely..." Hermione turned and faced her other friend. "Ron, you've—_oh_!"

Ron grinned sheepishly from the stunned look on her face. "My Mum picked them..." he explained, trailing off.

Hermione raised her eyebrows and nodded, seeming to understand the situation. "Oh. Well, that's... Anyways, Harry, Ginny's over there talking to Neville. You should go..." she paused, still a bit distracted by Ron, "... go see what they're doing."

Harry shrugged and left the couple to find Ginny, who was indeed chatting with Neville. "Harry!" she greeted, smiling brilliantly at him. Neville also nodded at him, but Harry was busy gazing at Ginny. She was wearing a navy blue frock with tiny ruffles and sleeves; her long hair cascaded down her back and her face glowed with mirth. She looked very pretty and Harry didn't know what to do. Was he supposed to tell her that? Or was that something he shouldn't say? Would he get in trouble if he didn't?

_You look great, _Harry wrote, despite his doubts, and she beamed. It was clearly the right thing to say.

"You look great as well," she responded, brushing her hand against his chest briefly. "Better than great, even."

Harry blushed, and Neville piped up, saving him. "You do clean up nice, Harry," his fellow Gryffindor agreed with a smile. "Us boys weren't even aware that you owned a comb. Dean owes me a Galleon."

Ginny laughed, and Neville laughed, so Harry laughed as well. This was date-acceptable behaviour, was it not?

_I never really use it, _he admitted. _Hermione did everything for me._

"That explains so much," Neville said amiably, before glancing over at the crowd and nodding at them. "Anyway, my date is over there, I'll see you guys inside."

Harry waved him goodbye, and Ginny took his arm as he put it down. "We should go in," she suggested, and Harry let her guide him through the doors. The Hall was transformed completely—banners and ribbons hung from the ceiling in white; beautiful, sparkling candles were suspended in the air. There was an area cleared for a dance floor, and tables covered in delicate, snowflake-coloured foods of every sort. The theme was winter wonderland and it had been cleverly executed. Harry was impressed.

Ginny tugged on his sleeve. "Harry, would you get me something to drink? I've got to talk to Hermione."

Harry glanced over at his friend latched awkwardly to Ron's arm, and feeling a bit sorry for the two, waved Ginny on. The girl smiled at him in return and flounced off. At that, Harry began to wander over to the drinks, his path becoming somewhat difficult once more and more students began to arrive. As soon as he found the table, he clung to it for dear life. Merlin! Harry hadn't even realised that this many types of beverages existed! He studied them all. Had Ginny said anything specific? What if she was allergic to something? He should have asked... what if she got angry? Harry scratched his head in frustration. Damn it, he was way in over his head. This dating thing was stressful.

"You won't find any alcohol there," a voice behind him announced. Harry whirled around, confused. Draco stood there with a familiar smirk on his lips, and Harry shook his head, a smile forming before he could even realise it.

Draco looked fantastic, as usual. His robes fit nicely, his hair appeared glossier than usual, and his skin glowed with radiance akin to sunlight. Of course, Harry wasn't surprised. Like he said, Draco always looked good. It sounded a bit odd, but when Harry had woken up the morning after he and Draco had crashed in the art classroom and found the other boy curled up in a peaceful sleep, he had spent a couple of minutes simply admiring Draco's face. Draco looked so _beautiful_ when he slept. In fact, Harry thought Draco looked his best like that: his facial features relaxed, his hair falling softly over his forehead. It was almost vulnerable.

Harry took out his whiteboard.

_I wasn't looking for any alcohol._

Draco was still smirking. "Well, you should be."

Harry snorted, and Draco leaned against the table, looking out at the dancing mass. Since there were crowds of people around them, Harry could hardly believe that Draco was acknowledging him. Although of course, for the same reason, it probably didn't seem odd that they were in close proximity anyways. There were too many people around not to bump into the occasional classmate once in a while. Nevertheless, Harry felt a little strange talking to Draco out in the open.

"So where's your date?" Draco asked, still observing the room.

_Ginny's with Ron and Hermione. I'm supposed to be getting her a drink._

Draco gestured towards Harry's empty hands. "Are you, now?"

Harry blushed a little.

_I'm not quite sure what to get her._

"Pumpkin juice. Girls love that stuff." Draco paused and shot Harry a saucy grin. "Plus, I think Nott spiked it a few minutes ago."

Harry rolled his eyes and picked up a cup of something that definitely wasn't pumpkin juice. Honestly, Slytherins and their alcohol! There was no way that Harry would risk getting Ginny drunk, he didn't want to take advantage of her—and besides, Ron would murder him first. Draco raised an eyebrow and laughed as Harry took a sip of the drink to make sure it was all right. Harry shook his head and grinned at his friend.

_I should be going. _

"Ah, but it's no fun being tied to your date the entire night," Draco remarked. Harry frowned.

_Where's yours?_

"Who the hell knows," Draco said flippantly. "I couldn't care less. Pansy and I have a mutual understanding at functions like these."

Harry shrugged.

_I don't think Ginny and I have the same arrangement. _

Draco made a noise of annoyance. "I'm sure that'll work out for you, loverboy," he remarked dryly. His grey eyes darted over to look at something on the other side of the table, and he immediately pushed himself away from the table and nodded at Harry. "I'll see you around, then."

Draco slinked away without a response, and Harry glanced over towards what Draco had been looking at. It was just a group of girls; Harry didn't understand what Draco had gotten all worked up about. He shrugged, and inspected the drink in his hand again with a sigh. Ginny wouldn't be picky, would she?

**~x~**

**~x~**

Draco had really tried to avoid this all night. He really had. But it was halfway through the Ball and he'd already been this lucky to have gone for so long. If only he had found a better hiding place! Although in retrospect, the middle of the dance floor probably hadn't been the most concealed area he could've chosen. Still, Astoria and her flock of Slytherin girlfriends had been clucking around the drinks table the last four times he checked.

"Draco! You look so handsome!" Astoria shouted, making her way over to him through all of the dancing bodies.

Draco grimaced, but managed to shoot her a pleasant smile. "And you look…" he sized her up, but didn't particularly take anything in, "observant."

Her large smile faltered a bit, but it didn't stop her from giving him a squeeze. "I haven't seen you in a while, your family hasn't been over in ages. Honestly, it's as if we're strangers!"

"Aren't we?" Draco asked, trying not to sound too bored. He did have to keep on her good side, after all. This was the woman he would probably have to spend the rest of his life with. Dear Merlin.

Astoria's expression was sly and catlike. "Perhaps we should get reacquainted, then," she suggested. "My father just bought another villa in France. You could come visit with me sometime, perhaps over the hols. It's by the water and everything."

Now she had gone too far for his liking. "Riveting," Draco said dully, not bothering with politeness anymore, and then glanced over her shoulder. "Anyway, do you know if Nott has got anything to drink? I'm desperate."

Astoria frowned. "He's got a crate stashed somewhere in the Common room, I believe. And he's probably carrying some on his person."

"Thanks. Good-bye."

Draco rushed away before the girl could say anything else, conveniently bumping straight into his other friend on the way. "Nott!" Draco exclaimed, grinning at the boy. Nott already appeared rather tipsy. "Got anything to spare for me?"

Nott smiled devilishly and reached into his robe, pulling out two bottles. "Put them in each lower pocket, mate," he advised. "It's harder to see. There's more in the Quidditch supply stash."

Draco nodded and stowed the bottles away, pushing through the pulsing bodies and out into the next crowd. At this point in the evening, the courtyard had to be crawling with lustful, drunken teenagers, so Draco wouldn't dare go there. He bit his lip in frustration; it had suddenly become somewhat vital to get piss drunk in order to even tolerate anything at this point in the night. How difficult of a task was that? And of course, there was nothing else to do... or was there? Out of the corner of his eye, Draco spotted Potter sitting at a table alone. Frowning, he made his way over there.

"What are you doing?" he shouted over the music.

Potter shrugged.

_I have no idea._

"Where's Weasley?"

_I've lost her. I've been sitting here for a while now. _

"Maybe you're a bad dancer," Draco teased, and Potter shot him a fake glare. Draco grinned in response. How Potter could have lost that head of fire-engine hair was beyond him, but it gave him an idea. "Come with me. I've got something a bit better to do," he promised.

Potter looked unsure for a moment, but as soon as Draco whirled around and stalked out of the Hall, Potter got up and followed Draco anyways. Without even thinking about it, Draco led them up a few stairs and down a few corridors straight to that art classroom again. Maybe it was his safe haven. Maybe it just seemed like the right place to be. At any rate, nobody would suspect they'd be there. After shutting the door behind him and checking the hallways, Draco pulled out one of the bottles and grinned triumphantly. Potter raised his brows in surprise.

"Told ya that you wouldn't find any of the good stuff there," Draco said playfully, waving the whiskey around before popping the cork. Potter shook his head, although he was chuckling to himself, and pulled up a couple of stools for them to sit on. Draco took his graciously, and then took a swig. Potter eyed him, curious.

"Want some?" Draco asked, holding the bottle out to Potter after a few more gulps.

Potter frowned.

_I've never had any before._

"Surprise, surprise," Draco muttered, before holding it out again. "There's a first time for everything, Harry. Come on, try it. It won't kill you."

Potter was hesitant as he took the bottle and peered at it. But when he looked at Draco, Draco nodded in encouragement, and the Gryffindor took a large gulp of the stuff before spluttering. Draco guffawed and took the bottle back for another swig.

"It's strong," he warned belatedly, and Potter gave him a halfhearted glare.

_I want some more._

"You sure you can handle it?" Draco teased.

Potter tilted his head in challenge and smiled strangely. The sight made Draco's insides tingle a little for some reason, and he lifted the bottle up to his lips again as he watched Potter spell out a response.

_Give it here._

Draco handed over the bottle and Potter took another large swig, although this time, he kept it in, watering eyes and all. Draco began to slow clap. "I commend you, brave Gryffindor, for you have finally crossed over into the supremacy of adolescence," he announced proudly. Potter giggled and drank some more. Draco cheered again.

There was sort of a brotherhood that came along with sharing a bottle of Firewhiskey—Draco could feel it the moment that he put his lips to the bottle again after Potter had drank from it. It was entirely surreal, the way art and alcohol could bring two people together as perfectly as it had for him and Potter. Even more than that, Draco loved the fact that Potter had never been drunk before and that he trusted Draco enough to get pissed for the first time with him. It was somewhat of an honour... at least, that's what Draco's fuzzy brain was telling him. They were on the second bottle, he believed. Or perhaps he'd gone and gotten another one, he couldn't remember. Actually, wasn't this the fourth? They had a stash, Quidditch supply, as Nott had said. What was he doing again?

"I've never gone skinny dipping before," Draco confessed, smacking his lips loudly.

Potter grinned.

_I've never gone swimming before,_ he signed.

"I've always wanted a pony," Draco remarked, slipping from his stool to the floor. Potter followed him.

_I've never seen a pony._

Draco sighed loudly, unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt. It was suddenly very warm. His outer robes had been discarded onto the ground long ago, and he was vaguely aware that he was sitting on them and that his mother would be furious at the state they were in. He didn't care. "Sometimes I wish I could be completely alone with myself," Draco said now, picking at the bottle label. "And sometimes I wish I could drown in a sea of people and forget myself. Isn't that strange?"

Potter eyed him oddly, his gaze a bit unfocused.

_No. I feel like that too._

"Well, good. S'means I'm not completely crazy," Draco mused.

_Or that we both are._

Draco made a face. "I like the first option better," he declared, now flopping on his back and rolling over onto his stomach to face Potter, who was still sitting. "Do you miss your parents?" Even in his drunken state of mind, he knew that it was a bad idea to bring it up, but he was unable to reason with himself over it. And honestly, he could blame it on the alcohol.

Potter wrinkled his brow.

_All the time._

Draco sighed. "Do you ever get angry, or fed up, like..." He took another swig from the nth nearly empty bottle. "Do you ever feel like you need to get revenge? For them?"

Potter took the bottle from Draco's hands and drank from it.

_Of course. They died for me. The very least I could do is return the favour. _

What an odd thing to say! Draco scoffed. "You won't _die_, though," he slurred. "You don't have to do that for them."

Potter had a curious expression on his face now.

_Why not?_

Draco wrinkled his nose. Potter's words were almost suicidal, and the way that the Gryffindor was gazing at him was no help. It was a bit disconcerting, even to Draco's drunken mind. He hadn't meant to trigger anything. "It's not your fault and it's not your responsibility," he insisted. "If they really loved you, they'd want you to be alive and happy. With friends."

Potter's face contorted again, and now he just looked miserable. He closed his eyes and brought his knees to his chest to bury his face in them. Draco looked at him sharply, his worry growing despite his state.

"Hey. What's wrong?"

Potter didn't make a sound, obviously, but Draco was close enough to see that the other boy was trembling. And suddenly, it was as if Draco's concerned and alerted senses were officially breaking through the fog of muffled, drunken thoughts and telling him that something was not right. He moved closer and put his hand under Potter's chin to bring his face up to Draco's. It was wet. Potter was crying.

"Harry?" Draco felt as though his own voice was echoing in his mind, and he shook his head to clear it. The movement only made his temples throb.

Potter's eyes were brimming with tears but his face showed no other emotion, and Draco put his hands on the other boy's shoulders. "What's the matter? Was it something I said?" he asked sluggishly, and it was probably the one time in his life that he wished that he wasn't drunk. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

Potter's hands were still shaking, and his lip were quivering ever so slightly, and his eyes were wet and glistening, but he shook his head.

_I'm going to die._

"What?" Draco exclaimed, bewildered. Where had that come from? "Harry, it was just a question. You're not going to die."

_I am. I have to. He's going to... He's after me. _

Draco frowned, the panic beginning to seep into his mind and give him the ability to think coherently—or at least, with less drunken fog. "What? Who?" he demanded.

Potter buried his face into his knees again, but his hands continued to sign.

_Voldemort._

**Author's Note: okay, cliffie! I'm sorry about that, but this chapter is longer than I originally wanted it to be, and now it's 3:30AM and I am very tired. Anyways, I think drunken!Draco is fun, and a bit silly, especially when he's all alone with Harry ;) I really hope you guys enjoy the little art lesson Draco gave Harry, but I'll be honest—I had no idea what I was talking about. So to the artists out there: I'm terribly sorry! **

**I wrote this chapter while listening to an acoustic piano version of 'Sleepyhead' by Passion Pit – not exactly relevant, but quite peaceful. On that note, I have an extensive Drarry playlist for anyone in need of some new music. I know I always am. (that's a plea for new music. please help me out and give me some of yours)**

**And again, let me know if you have any suggestions for minor details, and I'll be sure to take them into consideration! I hope you've enjoyed, and thank you for reading. Til next time!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Sorry for the delay! I have been lazy for a few weeks, trying to decide what to do with this fic, getting on with my schoolwork. It took me a while to write this chapter, and I've been fretting over it for hours, so let us pray that it isn't all weird. And by the way, happy birthday to pottersirr on tumblr! (I'm not sure of fanfiction account) Hope you have a great day!**

**And on a personal note: I'm going to college, guys! ~cheers by myself~**

**Anyways, thanks for waiting and enjoy!**

Chapter 8

It was Christmas day at the Burrow.

Harry sat on his bed, thoroughly exhausted. Merlin. His morning with the family had been, to say the least, complete havoc. In all of his sixteen years, he had never witnessed any family quite like the Weasleys. From the very moment that he'd arrived, there had been a shocking amount of shouting and things flying about at random. Mrs. Weasley had almost strangled him in a hug, the twins had given him some sort of strange-looking pastel (he'd discreetly thrown it away, and good thing as well, as it had made Ron puke once he'd tried it), Mr. Weasley had asked Harry what a hairdryer was, Ron's other older brothers, Charlie, Bill, and Percy, had all been mysteriously absent a lot, and Ginny had been around to give Harry many 'told-ya-so' looks at appropriate times. Throughout his stay, Harry had realised that every day was like this.

To be honest, it had come as a bit of a shock for him. He had never experienced a holiday like this before; typically, he'd sit in the kitchen of whichever creaky home he'd occupied at the time and open a few presents Remus had collected for him over the year. They'd sit around the fireplace, perhaps, drinking a few cups of tea and chatting throughout the day, but that was it. It was quiet. It was peaceful. This year, it had been far from either of those things. There were so many new noises and smells in the Burrow that Harry hadn't known had previously existed. There had been arguing, clanging, laughing, and even a bit of dueling—and it had all occurred before 7 AM! And now, Harry could use a rest. He had come back to his room to escape for a bit.

"Are you in here, Harry?"

Hermione's voice echoed through the hallway right before her head popped in the door, and Ron and Ginny showed up after her. Harry smiled at them and gestured them all inside. His friends (mostly Ron and Ginny) had already apologised profusely for the family's behaviour many times, but still, the looks on their faces at present said it all. Harry sighed and picked up his whiteboard from his bedside table.

_If you have come to apologise again, don't. Christmas was great this year. I hadn't known it could be this fun._

Ron grinned sheepishly. "Still… we've got something extra for you," he admitted. "A sort of 'thanks for being here' gift."

Harry raised an eyebrow and Ginny took her hands out from behind her back, revealing a plate with a tiny little tart and an elaborate red 'H' right in the middle of it. Harry felt his face heat up.

_For me? Why?_

"It's Christmas!" Ron announced, a huge grin spreading across his face. "I remembered that treacle tart is your favourite, so we made it this morning."

"Hey,_ Hermione and I _made it," Ginny corrected him. "You sat there and complained about the redness of the icing."

"But _I_ am the one who told you that it was his favourite," Ron argued.

Harry shook his head and blushed again. As sweet as it all was, he was a bit uncomfortable with the fact that they had gone to all of this trouble for him. The careful attention was rather unnerving. Besides, it wasn't as if they were celebrating him or anything. It was Christmas, for Merlin's sake! They should all be celebrating each other. To be honest, Harry should have made a tart for them, as they had been the ones who had graciously allowed him to stay at their home.

_Guys, you shouldn't have, _he wrote.

Hermione gave him a tentative smile. "Well, Harry, it's your first Christmas with a big family," she explained. "We want it to be memorable for you. And like Ron said, treacle tart is your favourite."

Ron cleared his throat and shrugged a bit. "Plus, we know that you've been feeling down lately, and… we just wanted to cheer you up," he added softly.

Harry sighed and bit his lip. It was true that ever since he'd gotten drunk at the Winter Ball with Draco he'd been somewhat out of sorts. But... he hadn't wanted to discuss it with his friends because he didn't know how they were going to take it. Draco wasn't their favourite person in the world and Hermione had even warned Harry specifically not to rush into secrets with the Slytherin, and well, Harry just hadn't wanted to disappoint them. He had believed that he'd gotten away with it, at least until now. Of course, he hadn't realised that they'd noticed his various moods, but from the looks of concern on their faces, they obviously had. Harry shook his head.

_I'm fine. Really._

Ginny sighed loudly and patted Harry on the shoulder; she seemed to read the moment as a private thing. "I'm going to help Mum with the dishes. Hope you enjoy, Harry. Happy Christmas," she added. Without another word, Ginny placed the tart on the table beside Harry's bed and left the room, shutting the door behind her. Harry watched her go instead of facing his two friends.

"We're going to talk about this, you know," Hermione said after a while.

"Is it about… you-know-what?" Ron asked. Hermione gave him a sharp glare and the boy shriveled a bit. "Or… not."

Harry shrugged.

Hermione studied him for a moment and put a gentle hand on top of his. "Well, is it about... Malfoy?" she asked.

Harry sighed. He figured that it would have to come out some time or another.

_Yeah. I told him about it._

Ron looked perplexed for a moment. "It?"

_You know... the thing. The you-know-what you had just now mentioned._

"You told him?" both Hermione and Ron shrieked. Harry pointed at the whiteboard again and nodded in response.

"Harry, I warned you about doing that," Hermione scolded. "If Malfoy even mentions that you know about You-Know-Who to his father, something really bad could happen. You could be in serious trouble sooner than we thought." She bit her lip worriedly then. "What made you decide to confide in Malfoy? Please tell me that he did something of note to help ease my mind..."

Harry played with his fingers a bit before answering.

_Actually, we were drunk. It was an accident._

"You got drunk with Draco Malfoy?" Hermione asked, incredulous. She peered at him speculatively. "Harry! Why on earth would you do that? When?"

Harry flushed again, for the millionth time.

It_ just sort of happened. It was after the Winter Ball._

"So _that's_ where you went!" Ron exclaimed, as if he'd solved a mystery. "You never came back to the dorms and we were all wondering where you'd gone. I'd almost thought you'd snuck off with Ginny before Hermione told me that she had been in the girls' dorm for the rest of the night. Blimey, mate, I never would have thought you'd go for a drink with Malfoy. Didn't peg you as the type."

"I knew that it wasn't a good idea for you to hang around him again," Hermione mused. "Malfoy is a horrible influence."

Harry stared at the floor, uncomfortable. He didn't want to talk about this with his friends, not on Christmas, not ever. He just didn't have any answers for them. Why had he told Draco about his problem? Why had he felt the need to blurt it out? Harry could have just brushed it off and laughed along with his friend, but there was just something about it all that had him reeling then. Something about the glow of Draco's eyes, the unrestrained smile on his face, the fact that for once in his damned life, Draco hadn't been putting up any sort of façade… it had made Harry's insides squirm and his cheeks heat up for no coherent reason that he knew. And suddenly, he had been telling Draco, because right then, Draco had been the most trustworthy person in the universe.

Of course, the next morning, Draco had fled before Harry had even woken up. They had fallen asleep in the classroom again. Upon finding himself alone, Harry had felt as though the warmth had just left him—he had discovered a piece of blond hair on his sleeve where Draco had slept on him. For some reason, the idea of Draco so close to him made his cheeks heat again. Harry wanted to believe that it had been the alcohol, but honestly, he hadn't stopped thinking about Draco since it had all happened. He couldn't stop thinking even if he tried. Why was that?

Hermione was nudging him. "Harry?"

Harry snapped out of it and glanced at her.

_What?_

"Do you think you made the right decision? Telling him?" she asked.

Harry paused. At the moment, he couldn't be certain. When he had been drunk and everything had been blurry, sure, it had been the most right decision in the world. But now… Harry didn't know. What if Hermione was right? What if Draco wasn't the boy he said he was? Unfortunately, Draco hadn't been the most truthful bloke so far. What if Harry had been wrong about him? He shook his head. He didn't want to think of it. Draco was his friend, wasn't he? He wouldn't hurt Harry.

_I hope so, _he wrote.

Ron glanced at Hermione, who nodded a bit, and then turned to Harry and cleared his throat. "Well, speaking of Malfoy, we've got something else for you." He pulled out his wand and muttered something, causing a small package to whiz out from underneath the bed across from Harry's. It landed neatly upon Harry's lap, and he stared at it.

"Malfoy caught up with us just before we left and told us to give this to you," Hermione explained. "It's a Christmas present. He said that he hadn't gotten the chance to give it to you personally."

"Reckon he was just scared, now," Ron mused.

Hermione shot him a look. "It's a nice sentiment," she argued, before frowning. "Though I still think that boy is a bad seed."

Ron rolled his eyes and gestured at the package on Harry's lap. "Well, aren't you going to open it, Harry?"

Harry looked at it a bit longer. He hadn't known that Draco had thought to get him a present, or else he would have gotten one for him too. Now Harry felt a bit bad. Of course, it was the least of his worries, but still—it was Christmas! He should have instantly realised that he should purchase something for his friend... Even though, honestly, Harry had no idea what he would have gotten for Draco in the first place. Perhaps the aristocratic Slytherin had some sort of rare, expensive taste? Or was that just a bias? Maybe Harry could paint him something. Draco had always loved his artwork... Harry gave his friends apologetic looks and wrote on the whiteboard.

_Could I open this in private, please?_

Hermione read the message and nodded immediately, taking a protesting Ron by the arm. "Of course," she said. "We'll be downstairs if you need us, Harry." She shut the door as they left, but Harry could still hear Ron's loud voice as the two exited down the hallway. He sighed and read the note on the outside of the package first.

**Hope you enjoy. Merlin knows that you should.**

**Happy Christmas.**

**- DM**

Simple as it was, there was something about the way that Draco's familiar script curled ever so slightly that made Harry's heart warm a little. He carefully unwrapped the paper, and inside, there was a brand new set of paints—the kind that Draco had showed him how to use with emotive colours. Harry couldn't help but grin. It was so… lovely! Hadn't it only been a few weeks since Harry had briefly mentioned that he'd love his own set of watercolours? It seemed as if Draco had actually considered the almost-conversation when purchasing this gift. Harry felt his cheeks warm again. Well, now he _had_ to do something special back. Forgetting all about his inner turmoil for a moment, Harry got up, scribbled something on a bit of parchment and rolled it up, attaching it to the leg of Ron's owl and opening the window.

Even with all of his conflicting feelings about Draco and the incident after the Ball, Harry still felt better knowing that Draco had thought of him this holiday. He picked up the tart off the table and took a bite of it, still smiling as the owl soared out the window with his note. The thought of Draco seemed to make a happy Christmas just a bit happier, somehow.

**~x~**

**~x~**

"Draco dear!"

Draco's mother entered his room before he could even respond to her, her blonde hair cascading down her back and swinging a bit as she paced back and forth in front of him. She seemed to have some sort of purpose for being here, but it was evident that she wanted him to ask her what it was. Draco sighed and put his novel down next to him on the bed. As much as he loved his mother, the woman could be rather dramatic sometimes.

Draco smiled pleasantly. "Hello, Mother," he greeted. "Is there something that I can help you with?"

Narcissa had stopped pacing and gazed at him as if she had just realised he was there. "Hm? No. I have come with news, however."

"Has Father arrived home already?" Draco asked, trying not to let the sarcasm drip from his tone. It was well past Christmas morning by now, even though Lucius had previously insisted that they would spend the holiday as a family this year. But alas, Draco and his mother had already had their evening tea in the parlour and there had still been no sign of Lucius. His father was at 'work', as the man had called it. Draco wanted to roll his eyes and snort. 'Work', his pureblooded arse.

"No, no, not that sort of news," Narcissa amended. She pulled out a small piece of parchment from her pocket and handed it to him, her dainty nose wrinkling a bit at the state of address. "This came for you a while ago. It was not properly lettered, so I couldn't be quite sure—"

Draco frowned and peered at the note.

**Thank you for the gift. I love it. You should expect something in return when we get back to Hogwarts... I promise it'll be worth the wait!**

**Have a happy Christmas, Draco.**

**- HP**

Draco immediately coloured and hid the note under his leg. "Ah, ahem, thank you, Mother," he said. "It's just something from a Housemate."

Narcissa studied him suspiciously. "There is a Slytherin student with the initials 'HP'? This is the first that I've heard of this." At Draco's accusing look, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and sniffed. "What? It wasn't sealed!"

"He's new," Draco lied. "His name is Henry. Henry…. Pepperblum? Yes. Henry Pepperblum."

Narcissa frowned at him. "Well, if you are close enough to be sending notes back and forth, perhaps we should invite him over for tea."

"No, no," Draco said quickly. "I've actually decided that I hate him. Anyways, I'm a bit parched. Could I possibly get something to drink?"

His mother gave him a strange look, and for a moment, Draco thought that she was going to call him on his bluff. Instead, she shook her head and turned for the door. "I'll get one of the House Elves to fetch you a refreshment," she remarked. "Meanwhile, you may resume your studies."

Draco smiled gratefully at her until she had left his room. Once the door was shut, he pulled out the note again and studied it fiercely. Yes, it was indeed Potter's scraggly, familiar handwriting, and from the looks of the smudged ink and fresh parchment, Potter had only just written it a few hours ago. Draco almost smiled. He hadn't been quite sure whether Granger and Weasley would actually give Potter his gift, or if Potter would receive it kindly, but apparently all had gone well. Draco had had the smallest inkling of a suspicion that Potter wouldn't be too happy with him, since, well… he had somewhat avoided Potter after the Ball. Draco bit his lip. It wasn't his fault, he hadn't known what to say to the poor bloke! Honestly, Draco wished that Potter hadn't told him about it. Ignorance is bliss, after all, and that certainly applied to Draco, being the son of a man dedicated to his 'work'. Then again, Draco had been asking for it… Then _again_, he had been drunk. He shook his head, confused. There were too many layers and complications to think about. The point was that he knew now, and what was he supposed to do about it?

And how did Potter know this, anyhow? Draco didn't even know himself. It had just been a rumour that You-Know-Who was… well, _back_, and even so, how could Potter be certain? It was all a bit shaky. Still… Potter had looked so vulnerable that night in the art classroom, so afraid and lost… Draco could tell that he hadn't been fibbing. Just remembering the scene made him shiver, and he wished that Potter were here now so that he could take his hands and tell him that everything would be all right. Did Draco know that? Of course not. But if he had to tell a little lie to spare Harry his feelings, he would. He had.

The sudden sound of a 'pop' made Draco look up from the note and find one of his mother's House Elves standing there, but not with a tray of refreshments as Narcissa had promised. Draco frowned.

"Master Draco," it squeaked. "Your father has arrived. He expects you to join him in the parlour for beverages shortly."

The elf 'pop'd out of the room before Draco could say anything in response. He grumbled and stood up from the bed, stuffing the note into his pocket and smoothing his hair out. Well, his father was _finally _home. How lovely. And at such an opportune time, too! Draco snorted and left his room, descending the grand staircase towards the parlour. He vaguely remembered the letter that Lucius had sent him a few weeks ago about the meeting they were to have. Well, this ought to be a joy. Meetings with his father were consistent in that they were always a guaranteed promise for a splitting headache later on. As soon as Draco entered the parlour, he observed Lucius, who was already seated in one of the giant armchairs.

"Hello, Father," Draco greeted stiffly, walking forward into the room to nod at the man. His father nodded back.

"Draco," Lucius responded. "Please, sit."

Draco did as he was told without a word of protest and attempted not to appear annoyed or antsy, as the last thing that he needed now was another one of his father's famous etiquette lessons. Once they were both comfortable, Lucius silently poured himself a glass of whiskey into a goblet and gestured at Draco to do the same with his tea. Draco took the saucer and served himself before taking a sip and staring at his father expectantly. Here goes.

"You must be aware of the circumstances, as I am certain that you have received my latest letter, " Lucius began calmly.

"You wish to discuss something with me," Draco said, nodding.

Lucius smiled thinly and appraised him. "How are you faring in school, Draco?"

Draco pursed his lips at the change of subject. "Excellent," he answered. "I am at the top of all of my classes."

"At the top, you say?"

"Yes."

Lucius narrowed his eyes accusingly. "What about that Granger girl?" he snapped. "Has she not been at the very top of your class since First Year?"

Draco clamped his mouth shut so hard that he could almost taste the steely flavour of blood. Of course, his father was never satisfied with second best. When would he ever learn? There was nothing impressive about seconds. "She has, sir."

"You will change that," Lucius ordered. "I shall not have my son outdone by a filthy mudblood."

Draco pursed his lips. "Have you called me here to discuss my education, sir?" he asked shortly.

Lucius sipped at his goblet. "My, my, Draco, are we not eager tonight?" he leered. "We will discuss a wide range of topics this evening. Settle yourself." He put his drink down and gave Draco a cool, pleasant look. "Have you seen much of Ms. Greengrass lately?"

Draco tried not to roll his eyes. "I've seen her."

"She is lovely."

"Certainly," Draco retorted. His jaw was beginning to feel sore from clenching it so tightly.

"And Ms. Parkinson? She has not written to her parents recently; they are worried about her."

"She is fine."

"Good, good," Lucius remarked. He took another sip. "Now, Draco, since you are so anxious to hear more, I want you to listen to me carefully. We, as Malfoys, have been given the most honourable task as of late."

Draco sighed. This really could not be good. Whenever his father had said something like that in the past, Draco had always been undeniably tangled into the affair... and he rather hated getting tangled into his father's affairs; they were never pleasant. Then again, anything that had to do with Lucius Malfoy was not typically of the pleasant sort. Nevertheless, Draco nodded. "What is the task, Father?"

Lucius smirked. "Let us just say that we have both been given some... detailed _instructions_."

Draco's stomach churned sickeningly. "By whom?"

"These are tricky times, Draco," Lucius remarked, his grin almost cat-like. "The Dark Lord is growing stronger each day. We must have means of support and power on our side. He will give us that."

Draco gasped. "You don't mean… he's actually _back_?"

Lucius glared at him for his slip of manners. "Draco, close your mouth after you speak," he barked. "And to put it simply, yes. We should have been on top of these matters sooner... I admit, it was partly my fault for not realising the signs, but when Nott had said that his son had retrieved Harry Potter's blood for the Dark Lord, while _you_ had not even informed me of the Chosen One's presence at the school, I had just—" Lucius paused and closed his eyes, obviously trying to contain himself.

Draco felt his lip tremble. "Father, you cannot possibly expect me to know everything. I'm just a child."

Lucius opened his eyes. "But you will not be a child for long, Draco," he said coldly. "You will be of age soon and it is imperative that you begin learning the roles around here. And first things first: where you stand in rank is always the most important matter. You shall do anything to gain status. Do I make myself clear?"

Draco felt as though he couldn't breathe. If You-Know-Who was really back, then what Potter had said must be true. The evil wizard would no doubt have bloodthirsty ends planned for the very boy who had destroyed him so many years ago... Now, Draco's family was involved in it. Oh gods. He was going to be sick. His family, Nott's family, Crabbe and Goyle's and Pansy's—none of them were safe from contribution. And Potter was… well; Potter was doomed, at this rate. Potter was no match for You-Know-Who: the boy could hardly perform a legitimate spell, for Merlin's sake! Draco couldn't protect Potter from this. As much as he wanted to, Draco couldn't go against his family and Housemates. He just couldn't.

"Draco, answer me," Lucius snapped suddenly, and Draco's mind whipped back to reality.

"Sorry, Father. I understand," he muttered.

Lucius looked scorned, but his expression immediately cleared when he took another sip of whiskey. "As I said, you will learn," he said.

Draco looked away for a moment. "Father? Can I know something?"

"What is it, Draco?"

"What did the Dark Lord need Potter's blood for?" he asked.

Lucius pursed his lips. "The Dark Lord is growing stronger each day," he repeated. "And because of Potter's blood, he now has a tangible form. Do not ask me the logistics, I was not there for the ritual."

He looked bitter at this. Draco swallowed hard and stared at the floor. His heart felt as heavy as a lead rock and he tried not to think of Potter, of Potter's glowing face, of his silent laugh, of his angry artwork and sleepy eyes and warm embrace. Potter wasn't supposed to be any of that to him. Potter was supposed to be the enemy. But gods, it didn't feel like it. Potter was so damned infectious that it hurt.

"As I was saying before you had distracted me," Lucius remarked again, "We have been given an assignment. Because of the unfortunate setback with Nott and the blood, I have been forced to seek out other means of improving our rank. The Dark Lord agrees that _you_ are the perfect outlet."

Draco looked up and frowned. "Me? What am I—?"

"Hush, son," Lucius interjected. "You must listen closely to this assignment. You will find a mode of undetectable passage between Hogwarts and Knockturn Alley. You will guide the Dark Lord's loyal faction through the passage to the school on a given night. From there, the plan does not concern you."

Draco had a terrible feeling that this so-called plan would not fare well for Potter. He straightened up a bit. "And what if I can't find anything?"

"You can, and you will." Lucius's eyes hardened, steel grey flashing with familiar superiority. Draco gulped. "Draco, need I not remind you how much _he_ dislikes failure?" Lucius demanded. "He needs to know that he can trust us. We need to know that we can trust _you_."

Draco wanted to cry now. "What if you can't?" he whispered, before he could stop himself.

There was silence for a while. When Draco couldn't bear it any longer, he looked up at his father. Lucius was simply staring at him. "You will learn the roles of this job, and of this family," he restated coldly, and Draco was beginning to think that it was the only response he would receive. He hung his head in acceptance.

Lucius stood abruptly, not waiting for Draco to say anything, and placed his cup on the nearby table. "If you succeed, your reward will be your immediate engagement to Astoria Greengrass," he announced, raising an eyebrow. "Her family is rather influential. The ties will be good for you."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "But Father, she's barely fifteen!"

Lucius tilted his head. "You will be officially married when you are both of age," he declared.

"That isn't a reward," Draco burst, now angrier than he'd ever been before in the presence of his father. All of the built-up tension from the previous conversation seemed to spill out of him then. "I don't want to do any of this! I don't want to marry her!"

Lucius's gaze remained shuttered and cool. "Then it shall also be your punishment if you fail," he answered simply. "Goodnight, son."

Draco watched his father leave the room, his cup of tea left cold and untouched on his lap. Gods, how did he get himself into this? One moment Draco had been sketching snitches with Harry Potter, and the next, he was plotting how to destroy him. But Draco didn't want to destroy Potter. Potter was Draco's _friend_. He was the only one who knew of Draco's soft side, the only one who had made Draco feel as if he were worth something genuine. Potter was the only person in the world who hadn't chased after Draco Malfoy... because Draco Malfoy had chased after _him_. Because Potter had been worth it. Did any of that matter to Lucius? Did anything matter at all?

Draco closed his eyes and let his head fall forward, defeated. No, it didn't.

**~x~**

**~x~**

It was good to be back.

Of course, Harry had loved his time with the Weasleys—he had promised a prompt return as soon as the next holiday hit—but it was rather nice to walk through a room without the potential threat of being hit in the head with a flying object or spontaneously screamed at. The halls of Hogwarts were almost a comforting sight to him as he reentered the castle. A few months ago, he wouldn't have thought that possible. Harry smiled and trailed after Ron as the boy led him towards the Great Hall.

"Fred says that next time we'll have to have another game of Quidditch in the yard, since he reckons we cheated," Ron ambled. "He's a sore loser, if you ask me. It's not our fault that you happen to be the greatest seeker of our time, mate."

Harry grinned and wrote on his whiteboard.

_I'm not that good, Ron._

"Yes, you are," Ron argued lightly, and Harry just shook his head in response as the two of them entered the doors of the Great Hall towards the Gryffindor table. As they walked, Harry glanced around casually; Draco was already seated at the Slytherin table. Harry's heart leapt involuntarily at the sight of him. He couldn't wait until their next art session. Draco would be pleased to know that Harry had been using his new paint set almost religiously... and Harry had another surprise for him. But he didn't want to ruin it now.

As if he had heard his thoughts, Draco glanced up and met Harry's gaze. For a moment, he looked curiously pained, but the expression passed and he was suddenly nodding towards the doors in indication that he wanted to talk. Harry paused and slowed down. He tapped Ron's shoulder.

_I just remembered that I need to get something from the dorm._

Ron frowned. "Do you want me to come with you?" he asked.

_It'll only take a moment._

"All right. I'll save you a seat."

Harry smiled at his friend before turning around and heading back out towards the entrance, dodging a few straggling students on his way. He leaned back against the wall and waited until the coast was clear. After a few minutes, Draco stalked through the doors and Harry sprang up.

"P—Harry?" Draco whispered. Harry waved at him.

_Why are you whispering? _he signed. _There's no one else here._

For a moment, Draco looked as if he was going to reply with some snappy retort, but he appeared to stop himself instead. That was odd. Draco hardly ever gave up any opportunity to say something sarcastic. "Listen, we need to talk," Draco began.

Harry frowned. _About what?_

"You know… about what happened the other night. After the Ball."

Harry paused. He'd almost forgotten about the whole thing, with all of the fond memories of Christmas and presents and new paints swirling around his brain. Honestly, it was kind of a soggy reminder at this point. He shrugged.

_I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean to unload on you._

Draco shook his head. "Don't be," he assured. "I just want to make sure… are you safe?"

Harry raised his brows.

_Safe?_

"Yes. Are you certain that you are being protected?"

_I'm taking extra defence classes. You know that. And I am here at Hogwarts. Is that enough?_

Draco shuddered visibly. "I hope so," he muttered, almost as if to himself.

Harry frowned and reached forward, touching Draco's shoulder lightly. It wasn't like the Slytherin to get all worked up about something like this, even when this something might prove to be something sinister. Draco was often the one to assure Harry, not the other way around. So what was different about this time? Was Draco really that worried about him?

_Is something bothering you, Draco?_

Draco had leaned into Harry's touch. And for some reason, his eyes looked a bit off, not their usual sparkling grey, but something else… Harry could not detect what it was. It was just off. Draco shook his head. "No, it's nothing."

_Are you sure?_

"Positive," Draco murmured.

Shuttered, that's what it was. Harry peered into Draco's eyes once again. They were shuttered. It reminded him briefly of the painting that he'd taken from Draco long ago, the one with the big window and the infinite sky behind it and the lock on the panel. Harry tilted his head and stepped forward, trying to make sense of what was behind Draco's secured gaze. It seemed almost impossible, just like the painting. He rested his forehead against Draco's.

Draco's eyes flicked down for a moment, and Harry suddenly realised that he had gone a bit closer than he'd anticipated. Still, the other boy didn't move away from him. Instead, he looked back up into Harry's eyes, seemingly determined about something all of the sudden.

"Harry…" Draco whispered.

Harry felt a rush of _something_ in his chest when Draco said his name like that. There was something so undeniably lovely about being this close to Draco that Harry had never noticed before, and this time, he couldn't blame the feeling on alcohol. Maybe it was the gleam of the Slytherin's blond hair, or the smoothness of his skin, or the faint scent of spice, but being near Draco was so new, so enticing. Harry found himself wishing that he could get closer.

But during this time, Draco had seemed to have a revelation of his own, and he took a step back and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I just wanted to make sure that you're okay," he reiterated. "You'll be fine."

Harry frowned at the loss of contact, but he nodded all the same. _Yeah,_ _I'll be all right, _he signed.

Draco studied him for a moment. "I have faith in you, Harry," he murmured suddenly. "You can do this."

Harry frowned again.

_But you'll look out for me, won't you?_

Draco's eyes became that murky shaded barricade once more. "Of course," he assured. "I honestly wouldn't stand to see you get hurt on my account."

Harry smiled, relieved. _Good. I know that I can always count on you._

"Yeah." Draco grinned back weakly. "Anyways, that's all I wanted. You can go back in now, I'll follow in five minutes."

Harry turned to leave, but before he did, he looked back at Draco.

_Tonight, same time as usual?_

Draco waved him on. "Go inside, Harry," he answered softly.

Harry wrinkled his brow a bit, but he didn't push the question further. Obviously, Draco was still bothered by the current condition of Harry's imminent fate. Or something like that. Harry shrugged. Of course, he hadn't expected Draco to accept it at first—Ron and Hermione certainly hadn't. But Draco would come around. At least Harry wouldn't have to dance in circles around him anymore now that the boy knew the whole truth. It was quite a relief. And it was especially relieving to know that Draco wasn't out to get him, that he could be trustworthy—sober. Hopefully, that would be enough for them. If he was going to sanely go through with this, Harry had to make sure that all of his friends were by his side.

**~x~**

**~x~**

Draco sat on his bed, alone, absently making little patterns of light whirl around on his curtains with the tip of his wand. It was 11:15pm. But he wasn't moving.

It wasn't as if Draco didn't want to see Potter—he did, more than anything—but the encounter in the hallway this morning had only confirmed what he had feared throughout the hols. Draco was getting too attached to Potter. Potter had become something that Draco eagerly looked forward to all of the time, someone that he needed to see constantly. In other words, Potter had become somewhat of an addiction. This was not good. Draco took a deep breath. And when Potter had stepped forward and moved his face so close, Draco had wanted—he had _wanted_ to—

He shook his head.

It was 11:20pm. Draco knew that Potter would be waiting. He reached out of his bed curtains and brought his bag towards him, taking out a piece of parchment and a quill from the pocket. Using his leg as a shaky surface, he wrote a note upon it. If Draco were to go through with this assignment his father had given him—and it seemed that he had no choice—he couldn't keep messing around with Potter's head. It was not acceptable.

Before he could second guess himself, Draco ushered his owl and tied the now-sealed note to his leg, muttering the destination in the process. As much as Draco hated to admit it, he wasn't strong or courageous enough to fight this path he'd been thrown onto. That was a brave man's job, a Gryffindor's, and Draco was neither of those things. Now all he had to do was accept it.

**~x~**

**~x~**

It was perfect.

Harry inspected his artwork, a satisfied smile growing on his lips. It was a portrait of the night sky, not quite unlike the one that Draco had bolted up in his painting, except it was absolutely boundless and infinite and twinkling bright with luminous colours that Harry had never even touched on the palette before. But he had, for this painting. This was a happy painting. It was something completely new and scary and lovely all at the same time. Draco would be so proud of him.

The sound of the door to the classroom opening caused Harry to turn from his work; he expected to find Draco sauntering in with some long excuse as to why he had been late this time. Instead, a sleek black owl flew in. Harry frowned, bewildered, and dropped his paintbrush on the platter as the bird perched itself on the stool next to him and poked its leg out. Harry took the scroll attached to it and the owl nudged him a bit before promptly flying away again. Harry wrinkled his brow and looked at the scroll. It was officially addressed with the Malfoy seal, so he knew that it had to be from Draco. But why was the Slytherin sending a message instead of coming here himself? Was he sick? Harry unrolled the scroll and scanned it.

**I don't think that we should do this anymore. ****I can't tell you why. It**** would be better for the both of us if we just weren't friends.**

**I really do hope that you'll be okay though, Harry. Take care.**

**- DM**

Harry stared at the scroll for a long time, reading and rereading it. Then, silently, he turned around and stripped his new painting from the canvas, tossing it off to the side of the room and standing up to leave. He did not feel any real tears on his cheeks or strain of his face, but his rapidly beating heart thundered in his chest as though it were shattering in two. He was almost certain that it was.

**Author's Note: And here we have another conflict. Was it too fast? Should I have let it go a bit longer? I actually debated having a full-on Harry realization, but I ended up leaving it here… So that was the end of my reckless rush for the time being. What did you guys think of the Malfoys? I tried to make it pretty intense, but I don't know. There was also a strange, distinct lack of fluff and snark in this chapter. I hope that's okay. I'm weirded out by it too.**

**Anyway, I listened to Coming Home Part II by Skylar Grey for this chapter. Give it a listen if you want, and thanks for reading! I'll try to update quicker next time…**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: I'm kind of early to update this time. Hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 9

It was a lovely day for a Quidditch match.

Draco could hardly tell, however. He'd spent the last week and a half sulking internally, throwing himself into his studies and skipping all of his routine pastimes except for classes and meals. It was bordering on pathetic... Draco was actually _wallowing_ in misery. Potter had not tried to interact with him at all since Draco had sent him that note: the Gryffindor hadn't even questioned it, hadn't even thrown Draco one look of confusion or sadness or even anger. He had accepted it so easily. And if that wasn't enough, Potter had acted as if Draco didn't even exist on the same planet as him—not that it was so difficult anyways, since Draco rarely ever left Slytherin. He'd moped around in the common room for days, growing increasingly irritated and snappy at the rest of his peers. One night, for example, Nott had told him to stop acting like a fucking shut-in and Draco had hexed him into the Hospital Wing. He presumed that they were all getting a bit tired of him by now.

"Draco, are you ready?"

Draco had been staring at a wall. He looked up, absently, to find Blaise standing there already decked out in his Quidditch uniform. The other boy frowned at Draco's state. "You're not even dressed yet. Get up," he barked. "We're playing Gryffindor today."

Draco felt a pang in his heart at the mention of the rival House. He turned away from his friend. "Stop pestering me, git," he muttered noncommittally, without moving from his spot.

Blaise placed his hands on his hips. "I've had enough drama from you lately, Draco," he remarked. "I don't care what's going on between you and Potter, just forget about it for today. This is Quidditch, you love Quidditch."

Draco could admit that he loved playing Quidditch almost as much as he loved to paint; it tended to give him the physical rush that his artwork couldn't. Often, he got on a broom and flew just to feel the wind against his face and the cloudy mist through his hair. It was a calming ritual. Despite that, Draco shook his head. "Can't you get Harper to fill in for me this match?" he asked pathetically. "It's Gryffindor. We'll be fine."

Blaise shook his head. "Honestly, Draco, you've been out of it for too long. Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw last Tuesday! They're running second now."

Draco turned and gaped at him. "What? You're kidding."

"Nope." Blaise scowled. "Potter caught the Snitch halfway through the match with some wicked incredible move. It looked a bit painful, to be honest. The Ravenclaws were in complete uproar."

Draco shook his head. He had known that Potter was good, but he didn't realise that the Gryffindor was_ that_ good. Damn, it seemed that the Slytherin team would have to be in real good shape today. They would need him. Draco had never played against Potter, but he reckoned that with a good amount of focus, he could beat the bloke by a long shot. Besides, Draco had more experience on Potter, and he _was_ reputed to be the best. It would be simple enough... he sighed. Well, today was just not a day meant for wallowing. He had a responsibility to keep up his House image. Draco stood from his place on his bed.

"I'm in. I'll be down in a few."

Blaise smiled. "Good. See you on the pitch."

As his fellow teammate left the room, Draco gathered his green-and-silver gear from his trunk and began to dress slowly. As much as he wanted to deny it, this would certainly prove to be an uncomfortable match for him. He hadn't seen Potter much over the past days, aside from the occasional pass-by as they came and went to their classes, and Potter had not even looked his way then. Draco pulled the warm sweater over his head and grimaced. He hated the fact that he couldn't go up to Potter and explain himself or apologise, he hated that Potter probably already knew the reason Draco had ditched him. If the abrupt note hadn't been enough to make Potter hate him, the idea of _why_ would surely do the trick. It was hard to think about. The growing lump in his throat was bordering on painful, and just the thought of Potter's radiant smile made his heart ache with regret. Draco swallowed heavily and pulled on his boots. He couldn't let his feelings distract him from the game. He couldn't let the fact that Potter would never again smile at him like that distract him from his duties—_any_ of them.

Draco strode out of the room and through the common room, his head held up with pride. He could vaguely make out the calls of luck and encouragement from his Housemates, but he didn't turn or respond. In fact, he didn't stop moving until he'd arrived to the Great Hall, picked up his daily breakfast, and headed out to the pitch. Draco was a man on the move, after all. He couldn't afford to be late... and to be honest, he was a bit afraid that if he slowed down, he might start thinking again. Couldn't have that.

By the time he'd gotten to the Quidditch pitch, almost his entire team was already present, and Gryffindor was the same on the other side. Draco watched his classmates making their ways to the stands from breakfast, wrapped in scarves of various colours and heavy cloaks and yelling out to their favourite players and friends. It had snowed overnight, but the pitch had been mostly cleared of the icy stuff. Draco shivered all the same.

"Malfoy!" Urquhart barked, snapping Draco back to attention.

Draco gave the Slytherin captain an appraising look. "Yes?"

"Keep a sharp eye on Potter. Don't let him out of your sight."

Draco tensed a bit, but nodded. "Sure. I've got it under control," he muttered.

Urquhart turned away from him. "We've beaten Gryffindor loads of times; remember the tactics. Their weaknesses are in their defence. Zabini, Vaisey, stay on them. Crabbe, Goyle…"

Draco blanked him out after that. His job was simple enough: find the Snitch before Potter did. He wasn't too worried about it. Potter was slightly clumsier and he wore glasses, certainly those would serve as a disadvantage. Besides, Potter was less aggressive than Draco, and impossibly mild—redeeming qualities in real life, sure, but this was Quidditch, and Quidditch was not like real life. That was probably one of the main things Draco liked about it, honestly. It was an escape.

Draco glanced about, now observing the Gryffindor team in full. Both Weasleys were surrounding Potter; Bell was barking orders at the rest of them, and they were all nodding. Each Gryffindor wore varying expressions of anxiety and eagerness. Draco's eyes wandered back over to Potter. The Gryffindor's messy hair was still wet from the shower and his mouth was turned down in apparent focus, despite the reactions of the rest of his team. He looked almost imperturbable. But when Ginny Weasley leaned in to fix his collar and whisper something in his ear, Potter suddenly snapped out of it and gave her a sunny smile. Draco narrowed his eyes.

"Malfoy," Urquhart said. "We're going now."

Draco turned back to his teammates and nodded as they all began to walk towards the centre of the pitch for the start of the game. Gryffindor was coming from the other side at a similar pace. Draco tried not to look at them, but it was difficult seeing that they were all directly in front of him. Steadily, he kept his eyes on the grass as he moved. Weasley was most likely burning a hole through his head right now.

In confirmation, Blaise leaned over and nudged him. "The Weasels are glaring at you," he whispered. "Why?"

Draco didn't look. "I honestly don't care. Let them."

Blaise nudged him again, but Draco didn't say anything more. They had now stopped in front of the Gryffindor team and Draco glanced up. "Ready to get your sorry arses kicked?" Bell asked, her eyebrows raised in challenge as she observed the members of the opposing team.

"Are you?" Urquhart replied, sneering. He gazed at Potter with a bitter frown. "Your lucky streak is over. We've got an undefeated Seeker."

Draco allowed himself to sneak a peek at Potter. The boy had merely stared at Urquhart, his gaze uncharacteristically hard. His nimble fingers curled around his whiteboard, tucked away in the pocket of his uniform, but he did not pull it out, and Weasley glared at Urquhart and placed a hand on Potter's shoulder to guide him away from the crowd. Potter's mouth was pressed in a straight, thin line as he turned. Draco felt the urge to say something, but he kept his head down anyways. Perhaps it was better not to get involved. By now, Weasley was muttering things in Potter's ear, and Potter was nodding.

Draco turned his attention away from the Gryffindors as the rules and regulations were halfheartedly explained to the two teams. It was time to focus. Before he knew it, he was climbing onto his broom, the game had been initiated, and the search had begun. Draco soared through the sky, the familiar feeling of exhilaration breezing through him as he tailed his teammates. Gods, it seemed that every time he got in the air, he received a healthy reminder of just how much he loved the sport. And now, he had a match to win. Draco hovered for a bit, scanning for Potter—the other Seeker was just a few yards away, searching the area as well. Draco flew over to him, lingering close yet still keeping his eyes level to the field. Potter looked at him offhandedly and swooped away a little. Damn, his form was immaculate. Draco cleared his throat and kept his mouth shut.

After a few minutes, Potter was beginning to look a bit irritated; he had glanced at Draco a couple of times already. Draco looked back at him. "What?" he asked, the first word he'd uttered to Potter for two weeks now.

Potter wrinkled his nose and turned away, as if to say 'nothing'. Draco sighed and perused the pitch again. He couldn't let it bother him, not now. Not when he was ahead... Slytherin had already scored twice, and the Gryffindors were looking grumpy. Draco fought the urge to smile. It was turning out to be a predictable match. Now all he had to do was locate the little golden wings…

Draco was peering out at the sky for his second sweep when he noticed something large rushing towards him—a spiraling dark ball. Fuck, it was a bludger. Draco moved away and scowled. The Gryffindors typically didn't toss Bludgers at him unless he was hot on the trail of the Snitch, and at the moment, he was still floating idle. Talk about bad sportsmanship. Draco glanced up again to make sure that he was clear out of range, but frowned at the sight. That was odd. The ball wasn't anywhere near him… it was going for… well, it was hurtling towards _Potter. _Draco started in surprise. The Bludger was flying at an incredible speed, evidently having been thrown with much more vigor than necessary, and with obvious malicious intent. Draco silently cursed Crabbe and Goyle for their combined efforts towards the Gryffindor. And of course, Potter hadn't even seen the Bludger yet; he was still looking at the pitch, his eyes darting about for the prized golden Snitch. Without a second thought, Draco pursed his lips and rammed the front of his broom into Potter's backside. Potter turned around to glare at him, but he noticed the Bludger first. His green eyes widened with shock.

"Get out of the way!" Draco yelled, and the other boy immediately jerked his broom, dodging the Bludger just in time for it to miss his left arm. One of Gryffindor's Beaters, Peakes or something, was on it in an instant, batting the Bludger away. Potter appeared surprised. He looked up at Draco sharply.

_Why did you do that? _he signed.

Draco balked. "What, you _didn't_ want me to warn you that a Bludger was coming to take your arm off?"

Potter frowned.

_No._

"Just trying to keep you intact," Draco remarked.

Potter frowned again, and this time, his eyes narrowed.

_For what?_

Draco clenched his jaw. "I'm looking out for you," he muttered.

Potter stared at him for a long while. His gaze was hard again and his expression was anything but mild. Draco had never seen Potter look like that before: so rigid, so focused, so _belligerent_. Perhaps it was just another side of the Gryffindor that he had failed to recognise. Draco grimaced. He didn't like the feeling that thought had given him.

_I can take care of myself, thanks, _Potter signed stiffly, now whirling around on his broom and flying at top speed in the other direction. He weaved up and down, side to side, his hair flapping in the wind as he advanced. Draco gulped and composed himself, following the other Seeker with renewed vitality. He couldn't let Potter get inside his head. He couldn't.

"Potter!" Draco shouted after him. The other boy was going far too fast to actually be looking for the Snitch. He was obviously trying to evade Draco. Draco shouted after him once more. "Potter, for Merlin's sake!"

Potter was nearing the Gryffindor goal post, finally slowing to a coast again. Weasley began to glare at Draco, but Draco ignored him. "Listen, I was serious. This is a violent sport. It's not safe out here," he blurted.

He didn't know why he was still persisting, why he felt the intense need to let Potter know that he was on his side, but he did. He hated the look of betrayal in Potter's eye. He hated that there was this solid wall between them. Of course, the wall was necessary, and Draco couldn't afford to see anything else in Potter's gaze, but he still wished that it could all go back to the way it had been and he still tried to explain. It was sort of useless. For some reason, he didn't care.

"Stop talking, Malfoy," Weasley yelled from the post. He wasn't looking, naturally, as he was watching the game progressing across the pitch. "You're distracting Harry on purpose!"

"I am not!" Draco argued. "And kindly butt out, Weasley. I'm not talking to _you_."

Weasley snorted. "Well, _Harry's_ not talking to you. So shut up and focus on the match like the rest of us!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "You're going to lose anyways, Weasel-brain," he muttered. Weasley just shot him a quick glare.

Potter gave Draco a tired look.

_Stop pretending you care. _

Weasley had glanced over and watched his friend's hand movements with surprise and confusion. Oh, right. Draco had almost forgotten that sign language had been his and Potter's thing. He shook his head. "I'm not pretending," he said quietly. "None of it was pretend. I meant everything that I said and did with you, and I'm so sorry it had to be like this. I wish it didn't."

Draco saw Weasley frown a little and turn away from the conversation, apparently to get back into the game. Potter wasn't looking at either of them as he signed again.

_No, you were right, Malfoy. We shouldn't be friends._

Draco gulped and pursed his lips tightly, trying to keep them from turning down. "Harry— "

Potter perked up then, but it wasn't because of Draco's words. Quick as lightning, he crouched forward and began speeding after a tiny gold object, and Draco cursed. Damn it! He had been so preoccupied with Potter, he'd forgotten about the Snitch! Draco tailed Potter as closely as he could, watching as the other boy flitted about with the Snitch at every whim. He narrowed his eyes. Merlin, Potter was _really_ fast. Draco pushed with everything he had, now coming up side to side with Potter, and they soared together like birds. For a moment, Draco glanced over at Potter; the determination on his face was positively disarming. Sweat glistened from Potter's crinkled forehead, his eyes were like emerald slits, and his teeth ripped at his own bottom lip so violently that it looked as if it were about to bleed. Draco gazed at him, mesmerised. Fuck, Potter was outlandishly beautiful like that. The newfound aggression was almost… _sexy_.

In fact, Draco was so enraptured by Potter that he completely missed the big swirling swoop the other boy had performed for the Snitch. Draco skidded, blinking rapidly. Potter had left him in the dust! He powered forward to catch up, but Potter was flying rough and complicated now, whirling about with sharp turns and risky dips. For the first time in forever, Draco was slightly intimidated. Now he knew why everybody had been so anxious over the Gryffindor team. Potter was clearly the new heart and soul.

"What the fuck are you doing, Malfoy?" Vaisey yelled, bringing Draco back to reality. He realised that he had froze in midair, watching Potter again. "Go after him and get that Snitch!"

Draco nodded and began to fly again. There was no way that he was going to give up—he had an obligation to his House to win this. He leaned in, driving his broom forward with incredible speed and avoiding Potter's elaborate moves. Draco could do this simply. He had the skill... at least, he had had proper training for this, so he damn well should have the skill. Soon, he was soaring by Potter's side once more, bumping into him every so often. The Snitch was right in their reach. Just as they were both craning forward to grab at the gold winged ball, Potter glanced over and shot Draco a strange look. Draco stared back at him, unabashed, forgetting about the Snitch. Then for a moment, Potter's pink mouth twitched, as if he were going to smile in camaraderie. Draco felt his heart pound once and again. And then, Potter grinned, but not in the friendly, shy way that he normally did. It was too... hard. He raised his hand up slowly.

Potter had caught the Snitch.

Draco felt an immense disappointment crash over him as the crowd began to go wild with frenzied bewilderment. Potter was now sweeping down to the grass smoothly, a giant, triumphant grin on his face and the Snitch held high in the air. Combined with the screams and commotion of the arena, it was almost as if Potter had become some sort of _god_. Draco, however, was in absolute shock—he had never lost a game for his team. Never! And now, Potter had beaten him—and Draco had allowed it... For once, he wasn't the champion.

"Harry Potter has caught the Snitch!" the announcer shouted belatedly, trying to speak over the roaring stands. "Gryffindor wins!"

The Gryffindors were going mental with excitement. Potter's cheering teammates and Housemates immediately surrounded him; the students began to crowd on the pitch from the stands. Weasley looked as if he were about to cry with joy. Ginny Weasley, the Patils, Brown, and several other giddy Gryffindor girls latched onto Potter's arms, giggling and praising him loudly. Potter looked surprised and a bit uncomfortable. Nevertheless, he appeared to enjoy it. Sluggishly, Draco flew to the ground with his teammates in tow, all sullen and stunned at their loss.

"Draco! What the hell happened?" Blaise asked, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him away from the sight of the celebrating Gryffindors. "I thought you said that you had it all under control!"

Draco took a deep breath and glanced over at Potter again. The boy was laughing. His eyes were twinkling prettily, and his smile was sweet and mild and lovely as it always had been—all of the hard, competitive drive had disappeared. All of the resentment and cold reception was gone. Draco felt his lip tremble, and suddenly, the horrible, pained frown he had been hiding throughout the match began to spread across his face like wildfire. Because Potter looked so damned happy without him.

Blaise nudged him, concerned, and Draco looked at him. "I thought I had it under control too," he muttered. "I suppose not."

**~x~**

**~x~**

Harry had never been this angry in his entire life.

He thrust his wrist forward vehemently and pointed his wand at the small, wooden dresser.

_Confringo, _he thought. _Confringo!_

The dresser shivered a bit, but didn't show any signs of exploding. Harry gritted his teeth. Damn. It had been weeks since he'd begun his training, and he had yet to produce one single successful spell. Was it sad? His brain and his wand never seemed to connect with each other, never even seemed to respond. It was as if he were thinking in another language. At this point, Harry had grown used to it. He kicked at the floor mournfully.

"Calm down, Harry, it's only your first go with this spell," Tonks remarked. Nymphadora Tonks, his young and attractive Defence coach for the week, had asked him to call her by her surname at first meeting, and Harry had liked her immediately. He found her colourful hair lovely, her funky attitude and dry sense of humour refreshing. She was nice and easy to talk to. Besides, Remus had spoken highly of her in his last letter to Harry, and Harry trusted Remus's instinct more than anything.

Harry picked up his whiteboard.

_Sorry. I'm just frustrated._

Tonks nodded. "You'll get it," she assured. "I'm sure that you've heard time and time again that it takes practise, but it really does. We all learn at our own paces."

Harry smiled weakly. Sure, he disliked having to learn spells each week and he disliked failing at them even more, but it wasn't his lessons that were particularly bothersome to him at the moment. As it was, Harry couldn't stop thinking about this morning's Quidditch match. It had been incredible enough. The match had gone so spectacularly that his entire House had deemed him a Quidditch legend and some of the students from other Houses had even begun to look at him in a different way... but none of that stuck with him for more than a minute. To be honest, Harry just couldn't wipe Draco from his mind. The Slytherin boy had almost pleaded with him, as if were something he could do, as if it hadn't been _he _who had broken off their tentative friendship in the first place. Harry's jaw tightened at the memory. It hadn't particularly been a mystery why Draco had dropped him like that. The Slytherin had gone home for the hols, spent time with his family, spent time with his _father_—and now, at sixteen, Draco had realised that he had some choices to make. And perhaps he was right to do so, perhaps it was time for both of them to grow up and face reality. Harry had to understand that. The days of painting and drinking and laughing in dark, deserted classrooms were finished, and something new had taken over. He couldn't exactly pinpoint what it was, but it didn't seem pleasant. It didn't seem pleasant at all.

Harry must have gotten a solemn look on his face, because Tonks came over and squeezed his shoulder. "Are you all right, Harry?"

_Yeah. I'm fine, _he lied.

Tonks hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "Is it a girl?" she asked, softly.

Harry looked up at her in surprise.

_A girl? What do you mean?_

"I've seen that look before," Tonks said. "It's always young, troubled love. You know, I used to watch friend after friend get lost in the trap, and even now, sometimes I still see it." She paused and frowned a little. "Sometimes in places I never expected it to show up."

Harry flushed.

_That's not it._

Tonks raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Well, you've got something on your mind, I can tell that much. Want to talk about it?"

Harry bit his lip. It couldn't hurt to have a little heart-to-heart. Besides, he hadn't discussed the 'Draco' matter with anyone except for Ron and Hermione, and sometimes, he thought that it might be a bit better to have an unbiased opinion.

_It's a boy, actually, _Harry confessed.

"A boy?" Tonks raised an eyebrow. "That's... different."

Harry's flush grew deeper.

_It's not like that. We used to be friends._

Tonks made an mm-ing sound. "Used to be?" she asked. "What changed?"

_Nothing. I just didn't want to believe that there was anything wrong in the first place. I thought that we could get past all of our problems because I thought friendship was supposed to be stronger than that._ Harry paused mid-stroke and bit his lip. _But I was naive. Stupid. It only happens like that in stories. _

She frowned. "Cheer up, Harry. I'm sure that you could find a way to work things out with this boy."

Harry sighed.

_It's Draco Malfoy._

"Oh." Tonks cleared her throat. "Well, his father is a bit…"

_Yeah._

She gave him a sympathetic look and ruffled his hair affectionately, the way that Remus sometimes did. "It doesn't necessarily mean that he is his father," she said. "Trust me, it isn't always like that. If Draco had been a friend of _yours,_ I'm certain that he couldn't be anything like Lucius Malfoy. You've got good judgement, Harry."

Harry looked at his whiteboard for a while before responding.

_I don't know. Draco is really nice and funny and clever... but only when he wants to be. It irritates me that I can't change him. _

Tonks smiled sadly. "It's difficult to change. For some people, family comes first."

Harry shrugged. He understood that, but… it didn't seem right. Not in Draco's case.

_Is it wrong to wish that it didn't have to be like that?_

Tonks shook her head. "I've come to learn that there is a growing gap between obligation and family these days," she said. "Still, it's not as easy as you think, to choose."

Harry looked at his feet. He wanted to believe that Draco was good, that perhaps Draco had been coerced or had even changed his mind about liking Harry—because either way, it would have made the pain in Harry's chest feel less like a speeding train crashing into a brick wall over and over. But he didn't think he could. The loss of a friend was difficult—but the loss of a friend to the enemy… well, it hurt more than anything. Harry had really liked Draco. He bit his lip, and suddenly, it was all spilling out like rainfall.

_I've tried to hate him, I really have. But then I remember the way he smiled at me, and his horrible jokes, and the way he laughed, and how he made me feel like I could do anything even though I know I can't, and somehow I can't possibly imagine hating him at all. And then I remember what he is doing to me and who he is and I'm… confused. I don't know how to feel._

Tonks studied him for a moment. "But you feel strongly about him."

Harry shrugged. He could scarcely argue with that.

She smiled. "Well, Harry, it is an unfortunate situation, but there is something you can get out of it." She stood tall and drew her wand. "You see, passion is the very best canvas for some seriously powerful spellwork."

Harry grinned as well.

_Do you think I can do it?_

"I know you can," Tonks declared. "You have to channel all of your mixed thoughts. Get your heart going. Get your blood rushing. Think of the way it all makes you _feel._ Feelings are the most potent force in the entire world."

Harry closed his eyes and steadied his wand, gripping it tightly in his fingers. He imagined Draco's blond hair, and his sparkling grey eyes, and the way that his voice could carry across any room—yet at the same time, was capable of becoming a whisper so quiet that it was almost as if he hadn't said anything at all. Harry visualised Draco's warm hands and his lovely paintings, how the two seemed to go together somehow; the reminder of a masterpiece always remained colourful on Draco's fingertips. Harry remembered Draco when he had been silly, drunk, happy, commanding—and he also remembered when he had been sleepy, sad, contemplative. Most of all, he remembered when Draco had been angry, like flames of a fire or the slap of ice water. How scared Harry had been, and yet, how it had intrigued him further. Draco was so beautiful like that. But Draco was beautiful all of the time.

Perhaps that was why Harry liked the way that Draco used to fall asleep on him, his expression unguarded and soft, but then Harry always hated when Draco would wake up, because he'd often leave before Harry could even move. It reminded him that nothing that Draco ever did was concrete, Draco was always running away or hiding or pretending. It reminded Harry that even though he was the one who couldn't speak, and Draco had all the means to say whatever he wanted, he rarely ever did. Harry could see it in his eyes. Everything was an act. Everything was a cover for something else. And suddenly all of the good things turned to bad things and bad things turned to good, and it made Harry _angry _because he wished that he could sit back and breathe for a bit, because everything was so mixed up when it came to Draco, because Harry could never be sure whether or not anything had been real in the first place.

It reminded Harry that he hated the feeling of hopelessness and inexorability that came along with Draco, and with Hogwarts, and with everything and anything else that had ever happened to him in his entire life; he was tired of it all. He was tired of always being taken advantage of, tired of feeling stupid and weak and worthless. Because he was Harry Potter, damn it, and he _was_ worth something. He had to be. And there was no emotion, mixed up or not, that could stop him from being who he was meant to be.

Harry raised his wand at the dresser once more.

_Confringo, _he thought mightily. Again, 'Draco' flashed through his mind.

Without warning, the dresser exploded grandly, and tiny wood shards flew through the air as the entire area burst into large, licking flames. The floor was charred and smoking in a sizeable circle around the once-dresser. It had worked! Harry stared at it in wonder. He had cast his first real spell, and it had been magnificent!

Tonks cheered. "I knew you had it in you!" she exclaimed, turning around and giving Harry a wink. "Some call it magic. I call it woman's intuition."

Harry beamed and wrote on his board.

_Did I do good?_

"Better than good!" Tonks gazed at the still smoking object. "Harry, you really _are_ a powerful wizard. That was amazing! Dumbledore will be so pleased to hear of your accomplishments today."

Harry grinned and stared at his masterpiece again. He had done it… he had really done it. It wasn't impossible after all! Harry let Tonks praise him for a few more moments before shaking his head and signaling for another go. By the end of the day's lesson, Harry had destroyed almost thirty dressers with the same amount of fire and ferocity as the first. He'd burned, thrashed, destroyed, and shattered each item to pieces, the same thought before every blow—Draco, Draco, Draco. The name became soft like cotton in his brain. It was rather surreal. And with each success, Harry could almost feel the tiny spark of hope growing larger and larger in his heart. Because with each success, he was slowly discovering that maybe he wasn't so worthless after all.

**~x~**

**~x~**

"Hey Draco, could you—?"

"Fuck off."

Nott pouted. "I just wanted to ask if—"

"I said, fuck _off_."

Draco's friend gave him a dirty look before getting off of the couch and sauntering up to the dorm, obviously not wishing to start another argument (or physical fight) with Draco again. Draco let him go and stared into the fireplace angrily. It was just one thing after another today. First it had been the terrible Quidditch match, and then his classmates' reactions to the terrible Quidditch match; Draco had two essays due on Monday, he hadn't thought of anything for his big assignment that he didn't even want to do in the first place, and he still couldn't get his mind off of Potter. And his life was horrible, there was that too. Draco sighed and picked at the couch material. At least here, in Slytherin, he wouldn't be bothered—his Housemates had been too terrified of his reactions to interact with him much lately, which was the way he liked it.

"Draco."

Perhaps he'd spoken too soon. Draco glanced up, ready to bite the head off of whoever had dared to speak to him, but before he could say anything, a hand darted forward and slapped him clean across the face. Draco yelped and stared at his attacker, open-mouthed with shock.

"Blaise!" he shouted.

Blaise glared down at him. "What the fuck is wrong with you lately?"

"What?" Draco gaped. "I haven't—"

Blaise slapped him again.

"Stop it!" Draco cried, whacking his friend in the stomach.

Blaise shook his head. "You stop it," he insisted. "You're acting like a bloody bird."

Draco glowered at him. "Why the fuck do you care?" he asked.

"Why the fuck do_ I_ care?" Blaise repeated. "Why the fuck are you so angry?"

Draco sneered at him. "You don't get to fucking know!"

Blaise frowned. "Okay, let's stop."

"Why? Does it fucking make you fucking uncomfortable, fucker?"

Blaise narrowed his eyes and sat down next to Draco, now lowering his hand. "Don't make me slap you again," he warned. Draco gave him a sour look.

"Stop attacking me then," he muttered. "There's nothing wrong with me."

Blaise scoffed. "Nothing wrong with you? It was like you were in a different world at the match today. I told you that you shouldn't let your little _whatever _with Potter get in the way of things. You get all moody."

Draco pursed his lips. He was reluctant to tell Blaise about what had happened between him and Potter recently, because he knew that his friend would pull a smug 'told-you-so' and Draco didn't particularly like it when he did that. Still, he owed Blaise from last time. The guilt had almost eaten him alive. And Draco was getting a little tired of brooding on his own.

"There's no _whatever _between Potter and I anymore," Draco mumbled. "That's over."

Blaise smirked. "Really? So fast? Told you so."

Draco glared at him. "Don't look so happy about it. It isn't what you think."

Blaise leaned back on the cushions and raised an eyebrow. "What do you think I think?"

"You think that I finally came to my senses," Draco remarked. "I haven't, for your information."

"So you admit that you lack sanity? We can agree on that."

Draco scowled. "I lost the match. The worst part is, I couldn't give a flying fuck about that. It's Potter. He's... everywhere. I can't get his face out of my head... and ever since I cut him loose, I haven't slept or eaten or cared properly, and now I've got a million things to worry about and they're all centered around him, and I hate everything. I just hate everything."

Blaise's playful mirth disappeared, and the concern from the morning took over. "Why did you end it with him if it makes you so miserable?" he inquired.

Draco sighed. He didn't know how to explain it. Blaise… well, Blaise didn't know what it was like. Presumably, his parents weren't associated with the Dark Lord or anything at all; Blaise didn't speak to his mother much and he didn't know who his father was. And even though Blaise was a pureblood and a Slytherin and one of Draco's best friends, Draco didn't think that he'd understand properly. In fact, Draco didn't think that _anyone_ would understand properly. He was so damned alone in this.

"I have certain duties that do not give me such liberties as to associate with him any longer," Draco said carefully. "They're my father's orders, of course."

Blaise studied him for a while; his brown eyes darting across Draco's face a couple of times. "Your father's?" he asked simply.

Draco nodded, stoic. "Yes."

Blaise sighed deeply and pursed his lips. "Look, Draco, I'm your friend, and you know that I fully support you, but I can't help you with this."

"I know. You don't have to."

Blaise nodded stiffly in response. They were silent for a few minutes before Blaise cleared his throat and patted Draco's knee. "Well, I'm off," he announced. "Going to try and sneak into the girls' dorms again. Wish me luck."

Draco smiled slightly. "I'll do no such thing. Pansy hexed your mouth shut last time and you couldn't speak for a whole hour."

"I know. Didn't affect my vision, though." Blaise smirked. "Worth it."

Draco laughed genuinely for the first time in a while, and he remembered why it was that he kept the bratty sod around. "Get out of here, you prat," he said.

Blaise winked and saluted him, sauntering away to plot or scheme or whatever it was that he was doing. Draco shook his head and looked back at the fireplace. He was glad that there weren't many students around, because he didn't like to brood in public unless he wanted to make a point. But this problem was different... He didn't want anybody to know about it. Draco sighed. This problem was much bigger than lost Quidditch matches or upcoming schoolwork or even Potter in general—it was all in his head. For the first time ever, Draco wasn't sure what he wanted or what he was willing to do for it. He was _lost_. He didn't know how to take the upper hand or talk his way out of this one, and aside from that, he supposed that he didn't really know anything else. It was out of his control, and Draco hated not having control.

It was somewhat ironic, really. He feigned as if he had complete composure and contentment at all times, but in reality, everything he did was a bit out of his control. His grades, his friends, his attitude, his engagement, and now this assignment were all just pieces of the puzzle that made up who he was, and Draco hadn't genuinely pieced any of them together. At least, not how he had wanted to and certainly not on his own accord. It was unfair. All of this time Draco had thought that he'd been playing the game of life, but instead, life had been playing _him_. Perhaps he had no control at all. Draco clenched his jaw.

And Potter. Everything about Potter was uncontrollable, and Draco had remembered that specifically today; Potter had commanded the pitch, his hardened features and graceful movements and perfect form had thrown Draco off instantly. It really shouldn't have been as compelling as it was: Potter was always doing that, surprising Draco... with his hair and his eyes and the way that he didn't have to say anything at all and Draco could still understand him, oh, it was all just so out of Draco's control. And maybe he wouldn't have minded, perhaps, if he had been able to explore it a bit longer. But... he hadn't. And Draco couldn't keep dwelling on it, he had things to do now. He sighed and got up off of the couch at the thought. It was exhausting trying to figure out who he was after so many years of thinking that he knew. Who would have guessed? Sixteen years old and already caught in the middle of an identity crisis. It was sort of a hollow feeling.

**~x~**

**~x~**

"Congratulations, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed. "Your first spell!"

"Yeah, mate, you're blowing off all the bases today," Ron said, grinning.

Harry smiled shyly at them. He'd just gotten back from lessons and had found all of his friends gathered around the couches in the common room, chatting and playing a few games. A typical night for the Gryffindors. Harry had still been preening from practise, so naturally, he told Hermione about his success. This was the one time that he didn't feel even slightly embarrassed or ashamed to share his accomplishments, and of course, Hermione had exploded with excitement. Everyone around them had heard, and now gathered in celebration.

Seamus was the first one to pounce after Ron. He patted Harry's back and squeezed him enthusiastically. "Blasting curse, eh?" He beamed, gesturing around the room at the others. "He takes after me, you guys. I am so proud!"

Neville raised his eyebrows. "Except Harry's was on purpose."

"Yeah, Seamus," Dean teased. "You blow things up because you're shit at Potions."

"I've done it on purpose too!" Seamus argued hotly. "Like, once!"

Harry laughed, and as he did, he felt an arm drop over his shoulders casually. When he turned to look, Ginny was grinning back at him. "Well done, Harry," she remarked. "You've joined the fiery ranks of one Seamus Finnigan."

Harry made a face and wrote on his board.

_Do I have to?_

"Hey!" Seamus protested. "It's an honour!"

Ginny laughed now. Harry smiled at the sound. Ginny's laugh was pretty and sweet, and from here, her hair smelled really good—not like Draco's, but a different kind of good. Like roses. In his perfect dream, Harry had always imagined his mother would smell like roses too. He gazed at Ginny and her red, red hair, wondering if the shade was anything close to his mother's. He hoped that it was. It was a beautiful colour. Ginny turned her head then to look at him and caught his stare. When she frowned in question, Harry blushed and glanced away.

Hermione chuckled too. "All right, all right, let him be. Go on and have your fun, Seamus."

Seamus grumbled a bit, but he dashed off anyways, grabbing Dean by the arm and dragging him up the stairs towards the dorm. As if on cue, Neville immediately followed them, yelling something about keeping away from his drawers. Ginny shook her head and squeezed Harry one more time before letting go and declaring that she had loads of homework to do. After she had left, it was only Harry, Hermione, and Ron. They all sat back on the couches.

"So Harry… Fantastic luck, right?" Ron chirped.

Harry nodded.

_Fantastic._

"You feeling better?" Hermione asked.

Harry shrugged. It had been a long day and he was still reeling a bit from his lessons. He could only be grateful that at least he had had this small, personal victory along with the obvious Quidditch win. Without some sort of pick-up, he might've gone insane. Especially with the whole Draco thing and all… Although Harry didn't feel particularly angry or violent anymore—he just felt really worn out.

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances. Then Ron nudged Harry's shoulder. "Uh, mate, I know that you probably don't want to talk about it much, but I just wanted to know what you were doing with Malfoy this morning during the match? With your hands?"

Harry had forgotten about that. It was strange, because he had grown so accustomed to spelling with his hands that it didn't feel like it needed an explanation anymore. Except it did.

_Sign language, _he wrote.

"Really? You know how?" Hermione tilted her head. "I'd always wanted to learn about that."

Ron gave her a dry look before turning back to Harry. "But I mean… why?"

Harry played with the dry-erase.

_It's faster. Kind of our thing before the whiteboard and all._

Ron wrinkled his brow. "Right, right. I was just... curious," he muttered. He looked as if he had wanted to say something else, but had caught himself just in time. Harry didn't push it or anything, however—Ron had the right to speak in his own time. Merlin knew that Harry understood that.

Hermione touched Harry's arm and examined his face. "You know that we're here for you, right?" she reminded. "And you can tell us anything?"

"Yeah, we've got your back," Ron added. "Anything at all."

Harry looked at his lap. He sort of both hated and loved it when his friends would gang up on him like this; hated it because he often couldn't block out his emotions around them, loved it because at least he knew that they cared. It was so uncomplicated, for some reason. That was the beauty of their friendship.

"I'm sorry that it hurts," Hermione murmured. "I really wish that we could help you feel better."

Harry smiled gently.

_You always do. _

She beamed and laid her head on his shoulder.

Ron peered at him. "You don't need Malfoy, Harry. I hope you know."

_I don't know. I think that I'm just afraid to be alone, _Harry confessed.

And he really was; perhaps it was one of his worst fears. He had been alone for so long that to have it ripped away from him after he'd known it seemed like cruelty. To him, loneliness was the most awful emotion that he could think of. It was inescapable and anyone could become completely powerless to it. Harry knew this best of all. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly low, he thought about his parents and his life and the ever-consuming idea that maybe, just maybe, his stupid, irrepressible loneliness was the reason that he couldn't speak at all.

Hermione had hugged him tightly. "Oh, you're not alone, Harry."

"Of course not," Ron added softly, touching Harry's arm. "You've got us, mate."

"For anything," Hermione declared again. Ron gazed at her and nodded.

Harry let go of Hermione and smiled at both of his friends weakly. He knew that they meant well. But for some reason, it wasn't the same with them as it had been with Draco. He didn't know why. It just wasn't. Touching Hermione didn't give Harry butterflies like Draco's touch had given him; laughing with Ron didn't make Harry want to leap forward and wrap his arms around him and fall asleep like that. Not that Harry had ever done that to Draco. But it wasn't as if he hadn't wanted to sometimes. And he had wanted…

_I wanted to kiss him, _Harry wrote without thinking.

Or maybe he'd thought too much. He hadn't particularly realised it before, but now it seemed like the most obvious thing ever... Kissing Draco. The idea was surprisingly lovely. Harry didn't know anything about wanting to kiss someone except for what he'd seen on the telly; the racing heart, the sweating palms, the senseless mind chatter. And when Draco had been close to him today, Harry had felt all of it at once, like being slapped in the face. It had been difficult for him to respond like he had when his heart had been beating so tremendously loud that he could hear it in his eardrums. It was a strange feeling. Harry had never wanted to kiss anyone like that.

By now, Ron and Hermione had both read the whiteboard and frowned, exchanging another startled glance before looking at Harry again. Harry was too mixed up to even feel embarrassed from it.

"Malfoy? Like… _kiss_ him? On the mouth?" Ron asked, incredulous.

Harry nodded in confirmation to each question.

Hermione looked flustered as well. "Oh. That_ is_ a bit different." She paused and rubbed his arm soothingly. "Have you ever even kissed a boy before?"

Now Harry went red. He bit his lip.

_I've never kissed anyone before._

His friends were quiet again, and Ron cleared his throat after a while. "Well, that was unexpected, but… not at the same time." He looked confused. "I don't know. For a moment there, I could have sworn you had a thing for my sister."

Harry grinned wryly.

_I could have a thing for her if you'd like me to._

Ron rolled his eyes. "Don't push it, mate," he said.

_She's pretty. Like a flower. _

"I'm so going to tell her you said that." Ron laughed. "She'll either hit you or kiss you for it."

Harry laughed too.

_Bring it on. _

Hermione smiled. "Harry, slow down. One at a time."

Harry shook his head and bit his lip again to keep from grinning widely. Maybe it did still hurt, and maybe he did wish that he could run up to Draco and jump in his arms and kiss him on the mouth, but right now, he could handle the discomfort. He had great friends, and they wanted him, and they cared about him. And maybe that was enough for now.

**Author's Note: This is so long! I was having major feels over Harry playing Quidditch recently, and aw man, I tried to relay it here as much as possible. Like, I need a renewal of badass!Harry in my life. I just imagined him blowing up things like crazy and this is what happened, so I am sorry. This was a bit of a conflicting chapter for both Harry and Draco, because they both have separate issues of their own while also juggling about with the loss of each other... so, it flip flops a lot. I hope that you guys didn't mind it! **

**Anyways, I made a fanmix for this fic because I'm lame, and if you want to check if out, the link is on my blog under the tag 'mine' (and the link to my blog is on my profile). I didn't want to butcher the link here, so hopefully the bit of navigating won't turn you off because I rather like the mix I made for this. **

**I listened to 'Dropped' by Phantom Planet for Harry's Quidditch scene, so I hope you check that out too. It's on the mix! Until next time xx**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Can I just say how sorry I am that I took so long to write this? LIKE SO SORRY. It took me a collective few weeks to write, and I'm not sure whether or not I actually like it, but I'm publishing because I feel horrible enough already... I promise I'll try to be quicker next time. It has been a hectic couple of months!**

Chapter 10

"Damn."

Draco pulled the musty sheet from over the cabinet and stepped back, frowning and inspecting it as he did—the old, dark cedar smelled of dust and mold, and it was ominously crooked on the left side. Same as yesterday. He sighed. Ever since his father had told him about this rare connection between Hogwarts and Knockturn Alley, Draco had been trudging up to the Room of Requirement every day trying to figure it out… Well, _trying_ might've been sort of an overstatement. So far, all he'd really done was come up here and stare at it. Draco had informed his father that he was working diligently, but—he gazed up at the cabinet again—it seemed near impossible. The thing was just there, looming, haunting him in reality and his dreams and everywhere in between. Draco didn't know if he could do it. He certainly didn't want to.

But of course, this wasn't about what _he _wanted.

Draco sighed and turned away from the cabinet, opting to sit down on a nearby stool instead. It wasn't as if he wasn't grateful for the amount of attention he was getting from his father (for a man so determined to have his son be the best, Lucius had never really cared much), but Draco just felt like he was being suffocated in it, and was now floating around in his own miseries, struck and left for dead. It was, well, it was _exhausting_. He hadn't slept for days, didn't have any of his assignments up to par, and he could tell that his friends were tiptoeing around him as if any minute he could explode. He might.

Draco groaned. His father had told him that he needed to work fast, that time was of the essence, that they were all relying on him—Draco glanced back at the cabinet irritably. Oh, how _anti-heroic_ he would be! Of course, he was stuck between wanting to please his father and not wanting to do this in the first place… the pressure of it all seemed only to create a tedious stagnancy in himself that he loathed with a certain passion. Draco shook his head and stood, not looking at the cabinet as he picked up the sheet and threw it over again. Well, he'd try again tomorrow. And then again the next day. And again. Ugh, it was useless.

Adamantly facing away from the cabinet once more, Draco dragged his fingers across the surface of the stool and gritted his teeth. Why couldn't he do it? Why should he? He couldn't have both his father's affections and Potter's. Not at the same time. Not at all, it seemed—because no matter what he did, he always did it wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong _wrong_. Of course, he'd always prided himself in being perfect, immaculately cultured and intelligent and _right_, but now he just felt so awful, so wrong, it was as if the world was crashing down around him. Wasn't it? Draco clenched his jaw so tightly, he could almost taste the blood; he hated this feeling, this feeling of hopelessness and inferiority—he hated the way it ate at his confidence and made his head throb and his eyes strain and his heart ache. He caressed the top of the stool absently, images of his father and his mother and Potter and his friends and the cabinet all racing through his mind and trampling every and any coherent thought he might've previously possessed. He wasn't his own person; he was a slave, to all of them. He couldn't even remember what it was that _he_ wanted anymore. And it hurt. It all _hurt_. So much.

Draco choked back a sobbing noise and bit his lip. He hadn't even realised he'd been sniffling a little. "Why," he murmured quietly. He let his hand curl into a fist and lay still, watching it grip tighter and tighter until his whole arm was shaking violently on the stool's surface. It was so oddly quiet in the Room of Requirement, so lonely, even though a sea of things surrounded him; he might as well be drowning in them. He could be screaming for his life and nobody would hear him. It would be kind of ironic, actually—Draco Malfoy going out like a tree falling in the forest. Draco shook his head and laughed bitterly. No fucking way. He let out a long, loud yell.

It wasn't fair. None of it was fair—he was only a kid, how was he supposed to deal with this? Was it punishment for the horrible things he'd done in all of his sixteen years? Was it simply fate? Draco laughed loudly. Well then, _fuck_ fate. Fuck the Dark Lord's orders. Fuck his father's wishes. Fuck his unwanted engagement, fuck the expectations everyone had of him, fuck the image he was supposed to be. Hell, fuck Harry Potter! He didn't need it. He. Didn't. Need. Any of It.

"Why?" he shouted again. "Why am I so fucking _useless_?" His voice cracked on the last word, and he slammed his fist down repeatedly, harder and harder, and now the tears were actually streaming down his face like hot wax, burning his flesh straight through to his bones. Gods, Draco hated crying, it was weak—_he_ was weak. And he was so sick and tired of being that.

All he really wanted was, well, _too much_. He wanted this, he wanted that, he wanted things he couldn't have and things he shouldn't have and things he'd already had. Draco was aware that he had always been spoiled—and shit, maybe he was getting what he deserved. But what was the price of being happy? Of being innocent? That, he couldn't remember, because he'd never really been happy or innocent, no—the only time he'd ever gotten close to that was when he had been with Potter. Fuck. Fuck!

Draco yelled and screamed until his throat started to ache, and gradually he slouched back against the covered cabinet, breathing hard between broken sobs. The side of his hand had red and purple spots blossoming and he couldn't stretch it out properly without wincing a little. Draco bit his lip and let his head fall back as he clenched his fist again. Good. He liked the pain. Maybe if he got enough, he'd toughen up a bit. He snorted silently at that. _Sure_.

He sighed and lifted himself off the cabinet slowly, grabbing his school bag he had hung on a random coat hanger nearby. He was done. There was no reason to be in here any longer than he needed; it obviously gave him thoughts he didn't want to experience. He pulled out his wand from the front pocket of his bag and placed a quick Glamour on his hand, relishing in the way that his disguised skin glimmered slightly before fading into its normal colour. It looked all right, but it felt like hell—a small price to pay in his brief relapse of self-control. Draco scoffed. Yeah. Brief. Well, he deserved it, and it wasn't as if he was going to go get it Healed or anything.

He began to stride towards the exit now, the familiar checklist of his public appearance running through his brain. By the time he'd reached the doorframe, his hair was perfect, his robes were perfect, his mouth was slack, his nose upturned, and his gaze was cool, bored—positively impassive. As always. Right before he stepped out, though, Draco turned around and glanced back at the mass of clutter and chaos in the general direction of where he'd come from, where the cabinet was still ominously looming. Draco pursed his lips and flipped it the bird. Fuck this, honestly. He was really starting to lose it.

**~x~**

**~x~**

"I have heard that your spellwork has improved significantly as of late. Congratulations."

Harry sat still in his chair, shaking his head as the Headmaster silently offered him a bowl of something that looked like black, wriggling pebbles. It was odd, but Harry had gotten used to Dumbledore's eccentricities. The man wasn't called the most powerful wizard in the world for nothing, and if he was, well, his peculiarity wasn't the reason.

_Thank you, sir,_ Harry wrote on his whiteboard. Dumbledore smiled.

"It takes a truly gifted wizard to perform so many exceedingly successful spells in one session," he remarked, moving around his desk to stand before Harry. "You have found your niche then, I presume?"

Harry shrugged.

_Something like that._

Dumbledore nodded and turned his attentions towards his bookshelves. "That's wonderful to hear. Although, you have much still to learn—" The man whirled around suddenly with his wand, but Harry disarmed him with a quick flick of his wrist. He looked down at the wand in his hand; surprised at his own agility—when had he pulled _that _out? Dumbledore smiled again.

"Ah, yes," he said. "Ms. Tonks had mentioned that you had gotten particularly good at that one." Harry tried not to smile. Well then, perhaps he could disarm Voldemort to death—_that _seemed likely. Dumbledore sat down behind his large desk. "However, she also mentioned that you must expand your dueling skills," the man continued. "Of course, it is one thing to have the ability to perform well in a classroom setting and completely another to be placed in an actual battle situation."

Harry bit his lip. He was no good at wand-to-wand combat. He was instinctive, yes, but he was always too slow to act. He had too much... uncertainty.

_How do I improve? _he asked.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "Practise, as always. I do recommend that you acquire help from a friend or classmate."

A friend or classmate? Harry felt a slight twinge in his chest. Draco had offered to teach him once, but Harry had been too tired then… Gods, now he wished that he'd taken the chance. Draco was really good at dueling; he was quick and resolute and confident—everything Harry had not been. Honestly, if anyone should be teaching him, it was Draco. He balanced Harry out perfectly… But then again, they clashed much more than they balanced, so perhaps it was a lost cause. Besides, Draco wanted nothing to do with him. Harry shook his head.

_I'll find someone._

Dumbledore appraised him for a moment behind his spectacles. "I am sensing a bit of hesitancy, Mr. Potter. Is there… something that you wish to tell me?"

Harry paused again before answering.

_No._

Dumbledore stood from his seat and circled around, observing the plants lining his tables. "It is all right to be scared. But I can assure you that you are quite capable of becoming a very powerful wizard." He stopped and smiled kindly at Harry. "Very powerful, indeed."

Harry grimaced.

_I don't understand why everyone keeps saying that I'm destined to be something I've never been. I know myself better than anyone, and I've never been a winner. _He frowned and bit his lip, worried. _I am scared. Really scared. _

Dumbledore fiddled with his plants. "And what, may I ask, are you afraid of?" he asked.

Harry looked at his lap. He was afraid of a lot of things—losing Remus, having Ron and Hermione turn on him, excessive public attention, rejection; hell, sometimes, he was even afraid of being late to class. But most of all, Harry was afraid of failure. For such a small, shy, twiggish boy, it seemed ridiculous to be afraid of that—obviously, he'd set himself up for that horrible, gut-twisting feeling on constant occasions, but it wasn't as if he could help it. He hated it. He hated the idea that there were things out there that he couldn't do, hated that there were people out there that he couldn't save. He hated that he was so insignificant—he had all this supposed power, and yet, he was so power_less_ in so many ways. It was exasperating. Harry had never pinned himself as a hero, no, he'd never been a hero. But in his head, sometimes, he could be. Maybe, maybe, if he were more secure, more intelligent, commanding, resourceful… Only if he were more like—

_Draco._

Harry shook his head again. He needed to stop _thinking_. Dumbledore was gazing at him expectantly now.

_I'm scared that I'm going to let everyone down, _he wrote. _That I'll cause more trouble than good, that there may be lives in danger because of me. I'm scared of killing someone. I'm scared that you're all wrong…_ Harry felt his lip tremble. He almost didn't write his next words._ …that there really isn't anything special about me._

Dumbledore turned away from his plants to face him. "On the contrary, my dear boy, you are special," he said, with a gentle look. "Whether it is because of your magical abilities or of the size of your heart, Harry, you _are_ special. Because you care… Never forget that."

Harry felt his chest tighten and his lips automatically curved into a small smile.

_You really think so?_

The Headmaster chuckled a bit. "Of course. And let it be known that I am rarely ever wrong." He winked. Harry grinned. He knew that there was a reason that he liked the old Headmaster. "Anyway, I do not wish to keep you from your week-end activities any longer, so you may go," Dumbledore remarked, going back to his desk. "But please, visit anytime. I love to chat."

Harry nodded, standing up from his chair.

_Thank you, Professor Dumbledore, I will. Goodbye._

Dumbledore smiled.

_Goodbye, Harry, _he signed back.

Harry stared at him for a moment before shaking his head and leaving the room. He would have asked how the Headmaster had known about Harry's little skill, or even how he had known that Harry knew it, but it would have been futile—the man was a vault of mysteries. Besides, it was possible that Dumbledore had seen Harry do it at some point; it wasn't as if it were a huge secret. Harry had used it frequently around Draco.

Draco.

Harry paused halfway down the corridor, thinking of the boy again. Damn. It was near impossible not to—and Harry had been trying so hard to avoid the thought lately. Ever since his little revelation, the idea of Draco just made him feel all fluttery and flustered and uncomfortable… and yes, Harry still wanted to kiss the bastard. Badly. Harry sighed and kept walking, a hot blush blooming on his cheeks. It was just so, so unfortunate. And now, Ron and Hermione knew it too—like they needed anything _else_ to pity him for. Honestly, Harry didn't know why he couldn't just keep his trap shut! Metaphorically, at least. His friends probably thought him mental.

"Well, I couldn't just _not_ say anything!"

Harry stopped mid-walk and frowned. Funny, that sounded just like—

"Ronald, keep your voice down!"

Ron and Hermione. Harry peered around the corner to the next corridor and saw the two standing there in the middle of it, huddled together as if they had been previously whispering. There wasn't anybody else around, Harry noticed, but he had noticed that earlier as well—there had been no staring as he walked out of Dumbledore's office. No, he figured that there was a match of some sort going on today; it was a beautiful afternoon. Most students were outdoors. Harry frowned again. Why were Ron and Hermione inside? Before he could step around the corner and show himself, Ron spoke again.

"But he was making signs with his hands to Malfoy, Hermione, I had to ask what they were," Ron said, and Harry froze. Why were they talking about him and Draco? He pressed himself up against the wall and strained his ears.

"It was none of your business," Hermione hissed.

Ron seemed to pout a bit. "But Harry's our best friend," he insisted. "And he never mentioned it. I just think the whole thing is sort of weird."

"If Harry wanted to share that with us, he would've," Hermione reasoned. "Besides, it was nothing. Sign language is actually quite Muggle, I'm surprised that Malfoy knew it."

"It didn't _look_ like nothing," Ron grumbled.

Hermione sighed. "Please, Ron. You're overreacting."

"You weren't there!" Ron exclaimed. "Malfoy started saying all of these things, and honestly, when Harry told us about wanting to kiss the git and all, I actually wasn't so surprised seeing as—"

"Wait," Hermione interjected sharply. "What sort of things?"

Harry wrinkled his nose. Yeah, what sort of things? He tried to think back to the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match, the one where Malfoy had tried to speak with him next to Ron's goalpost, but he couldn't think of anything extremely significant—Harry had been rather focused on not focusing on Draco... and besides, Draco had always spoken like that. Well, to _him_, at least. Perhaps Ron just wasn't used to hearing Draco say those things. But then again, Draco most likely had not been aware that Ron was listening in… Apparently, the Gryffindor had been.

Ron made a strange noise. "Like I said, it was _weird_. He said something about how he had not been pretending to care about Harry, and that he was sorry…" he hesitated for a moment, as if he were trying to remember. "Oh, and he was like, 'I meant everything that I said and did with you.' I mean? Is that not just a little—?"

"Suspicious," Hermione interrupted. Harry could just tell that she had that Look on her face.

"And _gay_," Ron added, sounding slightly incredulous. "Who says shit like that anyways? He's not in a bloody romance novel, for Merlin's sake. What _was_ he talking about?"

"Harry never mentioned exactly what he and Malfoy used to do together," Hermione mused. "Perhaps they had—"

"Oh no they didn't," Ron said. "Remember? They _painted_. Malfoy is an art_i_st. With an accent mark." He sounded sarcastic. "But honestly, the git was crazy for Harry. It was so obvious, even I could see it."

"Are you sure, Ron? Malfoy just doesn't seem like the type to pine."

"Hermione." Ron's tone was almost somber. "He called him... 'Harry'."

"Oh." For the first time, Hermione sounded genuinely surprised. "But Malfoy only calls people he likes by first name."

"And _Harry_," Ron repeated.

Hermione seemed to ponder this. "Okay, you're right, it's a little weird," she admitted. "But what are you trying to get at here? Malfoy really hurt Harry, and he can do it again—no, he _will_ do it again. And I am almost absolutely certain that he's going to be _bad news_, if he isn't already. He simply isn't right for Harry."

"I know, but Hermione, don't you think that Harry deserves something? Hell, the bloke's never kissed _anyone_ before! How sad is that?"

"And what do you want to do, set them up? Honestly, Ron, what are you getting at?"

Ron made a shrill, snorting noise. "No, no! Bloody hell, _no. _I'm only saying that if Harry wants to, I'm not stopping him. And I…"

Ron muttered something that Harry couldn't quite make out, and then, it was quiet for a few moments. What was going on? Harry peered around the corner to check. Oh! His best friends were embracing—Hermione had her arms wound around Ron's shoulders, and Ron was blushing and grinning down at the top of her head. Harry couldn't help but smile at the sight as well.

"I want him to be happy, too," Hermione said into Ron's ear, just loud enough for Harry to hear it.

Harry bit his lip and turned around to creep back down the corridor he came from, leaving his friends behind. He shook his head. Had he really heard that? Did Ron and Hermione really believe that Draco had a thing for him? Harry shook his head again and sighed. No. It was a naïve hope... They didn't _know _enough. They didn't know how it had felt to be stood up so many times, how it was to just stand there and play stranger in public; how Draco could just turn his emotions on and off and how it felt never knowing whether or not a 'promise' was just another lie—they didn't know how it had felt to receive a damned _letter_ rescinding a friendship that may or may not have ever been real in the first place, how it felt to sit down and hurt and hurt for hours and days and weeks. Gods, it had torn him to_ pieces_. But of course, Ron and Hermione would never know this, because Harry had at least one thing in common with Draco: he was damned good at hiding it all.

Harry shook his head to clear his mind—he hadn't been paying attention to where his feet had been taking him, and now he found himself stopped in front of the Gryffindor portrait. He signed the password with a sigh. It wasn't as if he didn't _want_ to forgive Draco, he did, but a person could only take so many 'sorrys'—and besides, Harry didn't even know if Draco really wanted to be forgiven; he had a feeling that he didn't. Draco only wanted to _feel_ forgiven. That's all he ever really wanted anyways.

"Oh—Harry!"

He glanced up after stepping into the portrait to find Ginny's lovely face right in front of him. She appeared to have been leaving.

"I was just grabbing my gear, there's a match outside right now," Ginny explained, as if she had known what he'd been thinking. She nodded towards the exit. "Want to come?"

Harry shook his head and took out his whiteboard.

_I'm kind of tired. Sorry._

"Are you sure? It's winners take all today."

Harry nodded a bit and moved past her towards the couches. He had just sat down when she spoke again.

"Hey… Are you all right, Harry?" Harry glanced up. Ginny was still standing by the entrance, her brow furrowed as she gazed at him. He shrugged, and she walked over and sat next to him, placing her stuff on the floor. "You can tell me if you're not," she said. "I'm listening."

Harry smiled at her. He hadn't appreciated Ginny enough until now—she was a really good friend to him even though he had never explicitly asked her to be. She had just _known_. Of course, he had been hesitant to talk to her at first since she was an extremely pretty girl, and he had discovered early on that pretty girls made him rather nervous, but he was glad that he had worked past his anxiety. Ginny was real and she didn't play any mind games—Harry liked that about her.

_I'm just a bit frustrated, _he wrote. _Spellwork is tough._

"Oh, I know," Ginny agreed, leaning back into the cushions. "But honestly, Harry, you'll get it. You're determined."

Harry sighed.

_I'm scared._

He was using that word a lot today. It seemed fitting. Ginny gave him a sympathetic squeeze; he hadn't had to say much for her to understand what he was talking about. "You're not alone—we're_ all_ scared of things," Ginny declared. "But you know what? If we weren't scared of _something_, we'd never get anything done."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

_You're saying that fear is a good thing?_

"Not always. And it can be a right kick in the arse, but sometimes, you need it." She paused. "Ever been afraid of losing something? Failing?"

Harry chewed on his lip slightly.

_I guess._

Ginny threaded her arm through his. "You lose everything you don't try for," she stated. "And if you've never failed, you've never lived… That's what Mum says, anyways."

_That's an optimistic way to look at it._

"It's always pleasant to have one," Ginny said, smiling. "You're a Gryffindor for a reason, Harry. Be brave."

Harry nodded. She was right. He_ was_ a Gryffindor—and he would prove himself, and he would become a powerful wizard, eventually. It was in his destiny. He was meant to be brave and decisive and confident, and if he wanted to achieve this, he was going to have to stop being so reluctant to try. Gods, but it was so much easier said than done. Even for him.

_Thank you, _he wrote.

Ginny grinned again. "It's no trouble. And if you need anything…"

Harry nodded, placing a hand on her knee.

_Actually, could you teach me how to duel?_

She looked at him, surprised. "Me? Well, I'm sure there are better candidates…"

_Like who?_

"I don't know, Malfoy, maybe." She glanced at him carefully. Harry wrinkled his nose.

_Ginny, you know I can't ask him._

"All I know is that you had been friends with him," Ginny stated. "And he's the best in the school."

_He's out to get me._

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Yeah, says who? Ron?"

Harry pursed his lips.

_Voldemort, maybe?_

Ginny winced, but she shook her head. "So he personally told you that."

_Well, no…_

"It's for your own benefit, Harry," she argued. "I'll teach you if you want, but…"

_Teach me. Please._

Ginny raised an eyebrow and sighed. "Fine. But you owe me."

Harry grinned.

_You're the best, Gin._

She smiled and unwound her arm from his, picking up her gear and standing up. He stood as well. "Are you sure that you don't want to join me?" she asked. Harry nodded. Honestly, he didn't think he could handle all the joy and bustle of Quidditch today. She shrugged. "All right. I'll see you at dinner."

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek briefly before giving him another encouraging smile and walking back out towards the portrait to leave. Harry gazed after her, his chest tight and cheeks warm. There was just something about Ginny: she was so sweet, so kind, and yet, so blunt. She said it like it was… maybe that was it. And Merlin—Harry touched his face where she'd kissed him and bit his lip. He'd been joking when he'd told Ron that he wouldn't mind going after his sister, but honestly, it didn't seem so crazy now. Ginny was exactly what he should be looking for. She wouldn't lie to him. She wouldn't hurt him. She would always be his friend.

Harry felt a small pang in his chest as Draco's face immediately popped into his mind. Of course, Harry _wanted_ Draco and his loud laughter and his clever remarks and his sparkly grey eyes and soft skin—Harry loved all of those things. But Draco was so _complicated_… and Ginny was not. Besides, Harry needed to stop wallowing over things that he couldn't control and focus on his current mission: to become that brave, powerful wizard he strived to be. He was still scared, sure, but Ginny was right—his fear fueled him and he was ready for the challenge now. And really, he hadn't been Sorted into Gryffindor for nothing.

**~x~**

**~x~**

Draco plopped down on the couch in the common room; Nott rolled his eyes and walked out, Millicent Bulstrode retreated back into the girls' dorms, and Goyle took one look at Draco's face and scurried away. Draco raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Everyone was still reluctant to approach him… As they should be. To be honest, he was still wound up from his visit to the damned cabinet, and he really did want to be alone.

"Draco?"

He looked up. Blaise, being the brazen motherfucker that he was, and Pansy, being the nosy second, were both standing above him, staring. He raised his other eyebrow at them. Trust the two nuisances to bother him at such a time.

"What?" he asked flatly.

They exchanged glances and sat down across from him. Pansy crossed her legs neatly and gazed at him with an expectant eye.

"Hi," she said.

Draco frowned at her. "Hello."

Blaise continued to stare at him.

Pansy smiled. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Sure," Draco remarked.

"How are you?" Pansy asked. It was clear that she was trying to make pleasant conversation with him to make some sort of point. For what? What did they want? Draco appraised her. He supposed that he could humour them for now.

"Well, I'm—"

"Liar," Blaise cut in suddenly.

Pansy groaned and rolled her eyes. "Blaise!" she scolded. "I told you to give me a minute before you open your mouth."

Draco glared. He should've known. "What is this, some kind of intervention?" he demanded.

"Yes," Blaise said.

Draco shook his head. "I'm leaving."

"Wait!" Pansy gazed at him earnestly. "Before you go... I just need you to know. I… I know about you and Harry Potter."

Draco stared at her in disbelief. "Excuse me?" he asked.

She bit her lip. "Well, you've been acting off lately, and I just had to know what was going on, so I asked Blaise and he told me—"

Draco sat up and gaped at Blaise. "You said you wouldn't tell!"

"I didn't!" Blaise glanced at Draco's expression nervously and flushed a bit. "Okay, maybe I did, just a _little_—"

"Oh my god, _fuck_ you!"

Pansy raised her hands in mediation. "Draco, it's fine, I'm not going to say anything—"

Draco whirled around to face her. "Oh, like _Blaise_ wasn't going to say anything?" he scoffed. "I swear, the two of you are horrid, _evil _little—"

"Draco!" Pansy reached forward and grabbed his shoulders. "Calm. Down. I'm not going to make fun of you, for Merlin's sake! I just want to... talk to you about it."

Draco pursed his lips angrily. He wasn't in the mood for talking and he _so _wasn't in the mood for his gossiping friends. Honestly, where the hell did Blaise get off, telling Pansy about Draco's secrets? And where the hell did Pansy get off, telling Draco she knew about his secrets? Well, the two of them could just get off together—Draco couldn't care less (except _not_ in his dorm… ew). However, his curiousity was getting the better of him…. How much did Pansy know? And how was she going to use her information? Draco sat forward and folded his hands across his lap. Fine. They got him this time.

"I'm listening," he said curtly.

Pansy let out a visible sigh of relief. "Blaise told me that you and Potter had been…" She glanced over at Blaise briefly before looking at Draco. "Uh, friends?"

Draco gazed at her in challenge. "So?"

"So…" Pansy glanced over at Blaise once more. The boy sighed and stood from his place on the couch, as if on cue. Draco frowned. Curious again.

"I'm going to bed," Blaise announced.

Draco glared at him. "As if anybody cares," he snapped, still angry with the other Slytherin boy. Blaise ignored him completely and walked towards the boys' dorms, disappearing into the entrance door with a light click. Draco turned back to Pansy and raised an eyebrow, allowing her to continue.

"How did you do it?" Pansy murmured now, her voice low.

Draco knitted his eyebrows together. It wasn't the question he'd expected—he'd thought he'd receive a 'why' or 'when' or even 'how long', but not this. Besides, Pansy wasn't one for many questions anyway; Draco had always liked that about her. So what was she playing at?

"Why do you want to know?" he asked, suspicious.

Pansy sighed. "Draco. I just…" She glanced down at her lap—a nervous gesture of hers that Draco had caught on early in their friendship—and cleared her throat. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if… If…"

Draco frowned. "If what, Pansy?"

Pansy looked up at him now. "If we, you know… stuck _with_ Harry Potter… I mean, for now. He _is _The Boy Who Lived, after all—"

"Pansy!" Draco stood up from the couch. "What are you saying? Are you telling me that you've decided to become..." He lowered his voice to a fierce whisper. "A _traitor_?"

Pansy glanced around quickly and shook her head, biting her lip. There wasn't anyone else in the common room at the moment (thanks to Draco), but she was still careful. They both had to be. "It's not like that Draco," she protested. "I just believe that it would be a good idea to poll our—"

Draco interrupted her, pulling her up from her seat by her blouse and bringing her close to his face, so close that the barely-there words he uttered would be as loud as sirens in her ears. "Listen to me, Pans," he muttered, between gritted teeth. "Harry Potter has absolutely no chance of surviving You-Know-Who. None."

Pansy stared back at him, unabashed. "How can you be so sure?" she whispered. "The ways my mother and father talk sometimes, I just get sort of… I don't know. Afraid. I haven't written them in a while." Pansy paused now, biting her lip again. "I don't think I can do this. Do you know what I mean?"

Draco gazed at her. Of course he knew, he'd always known. Draco had spent almost his entire adolescent life wondering if he could, if he_ should_, if he was doing right, if he even cared if he wasn't. And to see it all now in front of him, etched into Pansy's young, familiar countenance, so tangible and so real… It struck a particular chord in his chest. Draco knew that he had to remain strong for her, for all of his friends who looked up to him, for all of his Housemates who believed in him… Even if it wasn't right… Because Draco had realised long ago that he had a responsibility to, whether he cared or not. He brought her closer.

"No," he murmured. "I need you to understand something. You need to stay where you are. Potter-speculation isn't worth it."

Pansy shook her head. "It doesn't have to be speculation," she argued. "If he had _us_, he'd have an inside. With your father's position—"

"Us?" Draco repeated sharply. He pulled away from her a bit. "I don't know what kind of barmy ideas you've got stashed in your brain, but I'm perfectly sane and I'd fancy staying that way, thanks."

Pansy pursed her lips. "Honestly, Draco," she said. "You were friends with Potter… from what I've heard, _good _friends." She ignored as he scowled. "And I _know _you. You wouldn't just drop a good friend. Especially someone like Potter."

"I would if I had to," Draco retorted. "And I had to. You just don't understand."

"Potter can help us," Pansy urged. "I know it."

"You _don't _know," Draco said, too loudly. He lowered his voice again. "Potter is weak and insecure; he has his resources, but when it comes to it, it'll be all _him_. And take it from me..." Draco almost winced from what he was about to say—Potter had been his friend, after all. "He… can't do it alone."

Pansy seemed to inspect his face. Draco tried to avert her gaze, but it was no use. "You're lying," she said simply, after a while. "You think he can."

"No, he can't," Draco insisted.

Pansy raised her brows. "You _know_ he can."

"Just… you can't go with him, Pansy, all right?" Draco snapped at her. "It's not safe. Besides, you'll lose me, and Nott, and everyone else if you do. Now we will leave it at that!"

"No we won't!" she whispered ferociously. "How do you know that there aren't more of us who want out, huh? Why are you so intent on this?"

"Because!" Draco roared. He pulled away from her and clenched his fists to remain controlled. "I… said so."

Pansy took his arm. "Look, I know that you think that it's your job to keep us all in line, but it isn't. It's _my_ life. And even though Potter is a bit off, he's still—"

"He's not off!" Draco argued automatically. "He's… different. It's not his fault."

Pansy gave him a look. "Okay… But listen, Draco. I think he might be a good chance for us."

"The Dark Lord is growing stronger each day," Draco pointed out.

"So is Potter," Pansy said.

Draco frowned. He hadn't told Blaise that Potter had been taking extra Defence classes, so Pansy wouldn't have known that Potter was improving. So how did she? "How do you reckon that?" he asked warily.

Pansy looked guilty again for a moment. "I might've… spoken with Granger—" She glanced at his face. "_Briefly_! And it wasn't—"

Draco jerked away from her and shook his head. He couldn't help but feel betrayed by one of his best friends, the girl he'd grown up with, the girl he thought he'd known inside and out. And now? She was going to _Granger _and the Gryffindors, without even telling him first? After all they'd been through together?

"Whatever," he spat. "Do whatever you want. I don't care anymore."

"Please, come with me."

"No, fuck you!"

"Draco, Potter can _protect_ you—"

"He can't even protect himself!" Draco shouted, not even caring if anyone should hear them now; he was too distraught to notice. "He's so vulnerable and trusting, he doesn't understand people, he's too weak, he's too—" He put his face in his hands and shook his head. "You don't _get_ it! Harry—Ah, _Potter_—He's—"

He let out a dry sob, not unlike the ones from earlier with the cabinet, feeling betrayed by his own stupid, shaking, crumbling body as well. Potter, Potter, Potter—his smiling face and ruffled hair and small hands flashed into Draco's brain; so sweet, so real, so unconventionally beautiful in his own way. Draco just wanted to protect him, he wanted it so badly, and it absolutely killed him that he was actually in fact one of the people that Potter needed to be protected_ from_. It was so cruelly ironic. And it had been weeks since Draco had seen the Gryffindor smile at him, but there was never a moment that Draco didn't wish he could see it again. Pansy didn't understand how that felt and she never would. It was stupid, and it annoyed him, but Draco was upset that she was able to go to Potter while Draco himself could not.

Pansy frowned. "Draco." He didn't look at her. She reached for him again, but he wrenched away. "Hey, come on now," she pressed. "You obviously care about him. At least think about it."

"No."

"Why not?"

Draco whipped his head up and glared at her. "Because, unlike you, Parkinson, I'm loyal to my friends and family," he snarled. "And I have duties that I must fulfill."

"Draco, please don't act like this," Pansy begged.

"We are not friends anymore. Do not call me 'Draco'."

Pansy's lip quivered a bit, a hurt expression forming on her face. "I know that you're angry with me," she said quietly. "But I want you to know that I'll be there when you come around. And so will… Harry_._"

Draco turned away, pressing his lips together in a thin line to keep from saying anything else he might regret. Pansy was still quiet, and she moved slightly to the left as if she was going to touch him again, but after a moment, she had apparently decided not to. Instead, she turned around and started for the girls' dorms, disappearing down the hallway without another word. Draco didn't move. He was adamantly still for a few minutes; perhaps if he didn't move or breathe or speak, he wouldn't exist anymore. And he could escape his problems… If only it were that easy.

Draco sighed. He didn't _want_ to be angry at Pansy. In fact, part of him wasn't, part of him wanted to drop everything and join her, forget about the cabinet and his father and his duties to his family and just run, run to Potter… and that was what was making him so angry in the first place. Draco bit his lip, his muscles aching from keeping them so tense. He couldn't believe that Pansy, of all people, had turned out to be the one to leave him. Honestly, if Draco had to guess, he would've thought that Blaise would, seeing as the boy was perpetually teetering on loyalties as it was. And Blaise was much stronger and wiser than Pansy was... Draco sighed again. But of course, he wasn't allowed to choose who-does-what anymore. And apparently, this was how it was going to be.

Draco finally moved his arms, swinging them a bit, and turned around towards the portrait to leave. It was well after curfew by now, and he really had nowhere to go, but he didn't particularly care. All he really wanted was to get out and forget everyone—Pansy, Blaise, his father, Potter… Harry. Draco shook his head. Everything was spinning; blurry and wrong, whirling around in his brain like leaves on the Quidditch pitch or rain on a windy day, and Draco was so, so _confused_. He couldn't deal with it anymore.

**~x~**

**~x~**

Gods, he was exhausted.

Harry trudged down the dark, empty corridor, dragging his satchel alongside him on the floor. He had just finished his Defence lesson for the week-end—with Arthur Weasley, no doubt. Of course, they'd not done much spellwork or dueling, as Harry would have hoped... however, Harry had learned more than he ever needed to know about the importance of Muggle power plugs and extensions. He stretched a bit, running a hand through his tangled hair and yawning. Well, now he knew where Ron had gotten his rambling ways from; not that he minded it much. Harry found it rather endearing.

Speaking of Ron... Harry had not seen either him or Hermione since dinnertime; they had both claimed to have a project to complete in the library… Harry figured that they just wanted to talk more, about him. He sighed, scraping his trainers against the stone ground a little. It wasn't as if he didn't appreciate that they were so concerned about him, he just, well, he just wished that they would include him in their secret conversations. Didn't they want his opinion on the matter? Or on anything in general? He shook his head. Well, he supposed that they would converse with him when they were ready…

Harry turned the corner into the next corridor and stopped—there was a dim light coming from under one of the classroom doors, just a sliver, and he tilted his head a bit and frowned. Why did this particular classroom seem familiar? Was it a professor's? Harry wasn't aware of any classes on this floor… He had previously believed that all of the rooms were unused. Perhaps he had explored here? Harry shook his head again and started towards the door, curious. If it _was_ a professor, which he doubted, he could easily get Mr. Weasley's confirmation that he had been out after curfew for his lessons. If not, well… Harry crept up to the door and turned the knob, cringing at the creaking sound it made as it moved. He pushed on the wooden door and peered inside. There was a loud crash.

"OH!"

Harry bounced backwards in surprise at the voice, hitting his head against the hard side of the doorframe. What was _that_?

"Oops—ha, ha. Who's there? I demand to know!"

Harry frowned and looked inside again, his eyes widening with panic and disbelief at the sight in the front of him: it was Draco Malfoy, his robes spread open and his clothing tattered and unbuttoned, his blond hair a mess, his face bright pink; a confused grin plastered across his face as he teetered towards Harry, a bottle in each hand. Merlin's beard, Draco was piss _drunk_! Harry had never seen Draco anything more than tipsy—at least, while he had been sober himself.

Harry inched into the doorway now, still frowning, and Draco looked as if a ghost had appeared. "It's… I…." he stammered. "It's you?"

Harry shut the door behind him, afraid that the noise would attract a prefect or teacher, and shook his head.

_What the hell are you doing? It's after curfew._

Draco stared at Harry's hands for a few moments, as if having trouble deciphering the words, but he seemed to do it well enough. Obviously, his drunken state hadn't affected his ability to read. "I… don't know," Draco said now, looking even more confused and remarkably less happy. "I'm just trying to… I don't know."

Harry glanced around the area. Now he remembered where he was—this was the classroom that Draco had first discovered Harry in on his first day at Hogwarts, and Draco had yelled at him—Harry remembered then, the desks had been lined up perfectly. Currently, they were all pushed to the side to reveal crates of bottles; Harry figured that it was the Slytherin stash Draco had once referred to him. He shook his head and reached for the bottles in Draco's hands.

_Give those to me. You need to go to bed._

Draco watched him and shook his head as well. "No," he said stubbornly, stumbling away from Harry. "You can't tell me what to do. I'm Draco Malfoy."

Harry rolled his eyes.

_Seriously. Give them here, Malfoy._

Draco paused, as if recalling something. "It's Draco, you know," he said quietly.

Harry bit his lip and held his hand out.

_Draco, give me the bottles._

Draco ignored him and sat down on a desk, eyeing Harry speculatively. "Sit with me first."

Harry bristled. As much as he wanted to talk to Draco again, this was clearly a horrible idea. Draco was drunk and highly inebriated, and to add to that, Harry was supposed to be angry with him. However, Harry couldn't just leave him here—Draco could get hurt on his own. It wouldn't be right. And besides, Harry had to admit that he was curious as to the reason why Draco had gotten so pissed in the first place. Perhaps it couldn't hurt to stay awhile... He sat down on a nearby desk and crossed his ankles.

"Hey," Draco said, scooting his desk closer to Harry's. "Potter…" Harry tried to turn away from him, but Draco grabbed his arm, therefore dropping the bottles onto the floor with a muffled crash. Harry looked down at them—well, that solved that problem. Draco let go of Harry's arm gently. "Don't move," Draco murmured. "I want to look at you."

Harry frowned.

_Why are you talking to me all of the sudden? Aren't you supposed to be ignoring me?_

Draco tilted his head. "Trust me, I've been trying," he remarked. "It's rather difficult not talking to you, I hope you know. And I've been… preoccupied lately." He made a face at that. "But I think I've made a mistake."

_What?_

"I know," Draco said distantly. "There was some stuff going on, and then Pansy said something to me earlier that made me think… I'm not very strong, you know?"

Harry gazed at him. Draco was looking off a bit to the side, fiddling with the sleeve of his button-up and biting his lip absently. His legs were crossed as he sat on the desk, one shoe on and one sock off, a few strands of hair falling over his temples, and Harry could hardly remember a time when Draco had appeared more disoriented than he did at the moment. It was sort of… refreshing. And honest.

_I know what you mean, _he signed.

Draco smiled a little. "I know you do," he remarked. "And I hate that."

Harry inspected him.

_Why?_

"You don't deserve all of this shit." Draco laughed, somewhat bitterly. "I mean, some of us do, but you… you don't. Not at all."

_You don't either._

Draco laughed again. "Yes I do," he said. "You really don't have to say things like that. I know you don't like me much anymore."

Harry shook his head.

_I mean it. You don't deserve to feel this way. _

Draco chewed on his lip. "I'm not a good person, you know," he murmured. "I'm not going to do good things. I apologise to you in advance."

_You can do good things if you want to. _

"So I've been told." Draco sighed. "But it's not really about what I want, you see."

_What__** do**__ you want? _

Draco seemed to be staring at the wall across from him. He shook his head. "I don't really know," he admitted, less slurred than the rest of his speech. But then he looked up at Harry earnestly. "You, mostly."

Harry blushed and looked at his lap. Draco's grey eyes only seemed to burn right through his skin, like flames to ice. Of course, the Slytherin had always seemed to know what to say and when to say it, but right now… Draco was just _talking_—no boundaries, no double-meanings, no distractions… and Harry didn't know what to say. It was so real that it was almost... unbelievable. He glanced back at the other boy, who was still gazing at him intently.

_Draco, _he signed.

Draco smiled a little. "Harry," he said softly. "I miss you."

Harry's heart fluttered even though he didn't mean for it to. He decided that it wouldn't hurt to be honest back, at least for now.

_I miss you too._

Draco's smile grew, but his eyes were still sad. "I'm sorry."

Harry shook his head.

_Why do you always apologise? Why can't you just not do these things in the first place? _

"I don't know." Draco scoffed. "For a bloke who doesn't apologise much, I do it a lot, don't I?"

_Yeah._

Draco scooted his desk closer still, combining it with Harry's now, and lay down on them like a bed. He looked up at Harry. "I don't want to be like this, you know," he whispered. "I wish I could stop and paint with you forever."

Harry let Draco reach up and touch his face to draw the lines of his features; Draco traced the bridge of Harry's nose, his cheekbones, the scar on his forehead—all in slow, precise order. It was as if Draco was painting a picture. Harry's skin tingled beneath Draco's touch. The blond smiled sleepily.

"Hey, Harry?"

_Yes?_

"You make me feel... not useless," Draco confessed.

Harry sighed. He knew the feeling so well, it didn't seem right to tell this honest, raw Draco. Of course, he didn't want to forgive Draco for all he'd done—again, it just didn't seem as if it would do any good; Draco didn't want forgiveness. But it didn't stop Harry from hoping that he would. Draco seemed rattled, almost frightened, so different than the usual calm and composed that Harry was used to seeing. Perhaps the Slytherin had had a subconscious change of heart?

Harry looked down at Draco, ready to pose another question, but the blond was already rapidly falling asleep, his hands now folded up under his head and his eyes fluttered shut. Harry frowned and reached forward to shake Draco awake again, but after another glace at the peaceful expression on the boy's face, he stopped. It couldn't hurt to have one more night with Draco, could it? Besides, Harry knew that Draco would wake up the next morning and not remember a thing, or perhaps remember every single detail—and either way, he'd be gone before Harry could move a muscle. Harry wriggled down and rolled over on his side to fit onto the space next to Draco, letting the other boy move in and wrap an arm around his waist. He watched Draco's face for a few moments, letting himself smile a bit before cuddling in closer—if he was only going to have this now, he might as well make the best of it.

**Author's Note: There, a long chapter. I apologize again for the lateness! I really hope that this chapter makes sense and is going along with what I've already written, because honestly, I did not reread the last chapter before this and I don't know if it fits (I probably shouldn't admit that but I'll be honest with you guys). Anyways, I was going to make that last Harry-Draco encounter more angsty, but I decided, hey, I think I'll give it fluff instead. Fluffy kitten Draco. I mean, we can only have so much argument and trouble, right? (no? I CAN WRITE MORE IF YOU WANT). And what do you guys think of Ginny? Pansy?**

**AGAIN, I'm SO SORRY, and I hope you enjoy this. I PROMISE that I'll get my next chapter out sooner than this one. ACK.**


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